There were two kinds of mornings
the day you were born.
We had the other.
We whispered about you in bedrooms
and then we talked in kitchens.
We did laundry, folded sheets
thinking about your hands,
how they would be so small.
We paired sock with sock
and then we saw your sister who knew
this was the day she was suddenly big,
bigger than when she went to sleep
because of you,
how you would see her,
all that you would need.
We all thought about what you’d need,
so we arranged flowers, rode in boats,
cleaned sinks, bought apples and washed them.
We talked about your tiny feet
and then your damp-dark hair.
Your morning was water and light,
warm voices and, for the first time, taste.
Ours was final preparation, final prayer,
other things in the world that wanted you,
waited on you,
