A Poem About My Mother at 6:26 AM
And sometimes when I go downstairs
in the full-moon morning,
and my warm feet ache on the wood floor
because the house has frozen over in the night
and the thermostat is,
it's not on:
there's a mug of hot chocolate already there
by the makeup bag and the toothpaste,
and there are little marshmallows in there.
And that's when I think:This is love.