By Rachel Landrum Crumble
Perhaps it is the full moon shining high
above March rain clouds
or the quiet—like restored sanity—
reclaiming the house
Or maybe it's the refrigerator's calm hum
like a grocery cash register, adding
digits of individual human suffering, unable
to reach a grand total, and the seething
narrowing eyes from the checkout line;
Maybe it's the pure light of my daughter's
innocent dreams dividing the darkness
or the even breaths of my son
as he rides the purple dolphins of his dreams
or maybe it's the methodical snoring of my
husband, determined even in sleep...
Maybe it's my own pain that shimmers like wind-
chimes in the rising storm, the rising breath
of sorrow. But Sister Sorrow calls my name
from sleep, sets the table, lights a candle.
Aside from sleep, I had no plans, and, yes,
I can stay for supper.