Two tired children tucked in bed, motherlove
whispered gently against their cheeks,
light switches thrown, quilts tame on couches
making lazy hound-shapes in the dark.
My feet are sure against the hardwood floor,
here a dip due to age, here the corner
where I keep my winter crochet and books,
each creak an amen, affirmation, home.
Simple things: warm kitchen, mint toothpaste.
A pilgrimage of homecoming. And this,
my favorite, your face as I slide into
bed, the way you lay down your book as though
no matter when I come, it is the end
of a chapter, and a good stopping-place.
The Good Ending
