Ray of Light

I can remember the sun tapping at my eyelids with it's rays,

fingertips of warmth and light that willed me awake those mornings.

The crow would cry his primal song and it became part of the opening melody of my day.

You'd help me scramble into oversized boots to trample down to the chickens to gather eggs for breakfast,

and I'd wiggle my feet free to press my toes in the mud down by the lake on the way back to the farm house with you.

Butter frying first in iron skillet pans,

and fresh blueberries popping between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

Hot cakes rose in the hot butter pan and the air smelled like maple and

the air felt even more humid as I crowded in that kitchen with you.

I'd scurry around your waist like a barnyard mouse but you'd never shoo me away.

Every task from you seemed like an honored job and standing on my tiptoes to drop a spoon in the sink elicited appreciation from you.

You held my hand in yours and guided me to the table,

and I could feel your joints swollen from decades of work and never stopping.

Your calloused hands never felt rough to me,

they always seemed sturdy and safer to hold onto than anyone else's expectations of me.

I'd watch the sun creep in around you,

framing your grey hair like a halo.

You never were canonized,

but in my eyes you were a saint.

Even when the earth took you home,

and the skies took to night

I saw that halo hang around the moon,

and smelled that tall grass summer air you'd wrap me in,

year after year.