By Abigail Rudibaugh
Fresh language revives me
better than a hot cup of coffee.
Its fingers motioning secret access
to another world only lasting
another moment, while I break
the magnetic pull of my warm
layered bed of cotton soft
in curiosity as my daughter
declares, “The sunrise is waking
us up with all its colors.”
With the blinds closed
she must have seen it
seeping through the front door’s
glass on her way down the stairs.
I heard her feet pause—
before coming to get us,
before settling down on the couch
waiting for us to pull the curtain open,
before asking if she could guess
the names of the shades in the sky—
awe gave her a moment of true worship.