The tiptoe hours

There are some wise people

who wake in the dark

and watch the world dawn

over backyard trees.

I am not one of these people.

Most days I greet the morning

with the rising sun

of a child’s eager face before mine.

Then time takes my hand and pulls me

up, up, up

like a rag doll

through the assembly line

of peanut butter toast with honey.

A toddler parked in the curve of my hip

a warm mug cradled in the palm of my hand.

But today —

I sit

like the wise ones.

In a house as still as the country night.

Nobody awake, but me and my shadow.

And the tick, tick, tick

of the wall clock

and the drip, drip, drip

of the coffee maker

and the faint purring

of an oversized

house cat.

Not even the sun

has peeked her head above covers.

And isn’t it peculiar —

the places one finds magic.

For in these tiptoe hours,

I am floating on air.

I am now the conductor

rather than the caboose.

And I dance around the house

in a hush in no hurry

feeling like a fine hostess

prepared to welcome the dawn.

Oh, hello there, my wonderful friend —

There you are —

Come in, come in.

I have been waiting for you.