There's a certain quality of light in the kitchen
At eleven a.m. on a mid-summer morning
That makes me wish my mother and father
Were still alive.
We could sit and drink coffee while the light
Plays out glossy gray over the walnut table,
Their hands would be old and wrinkled now,
And their hair completely white.
We could talk about what my life would be like
If either of them had died when I was so young--
If they weren't here to drink coffee with me
And watch me wonder at the quality of light.
But I know what that's like.
I drink my coffee alone while the late morning
Light shimmers, iridescent, over its surface