Morning Run

(I wrote this one a couple years back in the haze of baby days)

.

Daybreak fractured by the pad

of small feet.

The incessant squirming

between us in the blankets

the piercing sweet whispers,

“Mama, what’s for breakfast?”

.

Staggering into the blur

of the day

without a proper good morning.

I don’t hear

your greeting through the slop

of oatmeal, clatter

of bowls and

cries over spilt milk.

.

Folding sun-crisp laundry

tying shoelaces, slicing

apples and we speak

in half sentences:

“Please not a fever,”

“Don’t let her wake up,”

“Not today,”

“Help me.”

.

The oasis of naps

and sometimes

a few snatched moments together,

quiet conversations over a cup of tepid coffee,

the still surface of our pool so often rippled

by the impatient touch of emails,

overturned boxes of legos

dinner plans and sometimes,

just one more page of someone else’s

poems.

.

The day rolls on like a long

shallow wave

and we wash onto the evening beach,

spaghetti on the floor

the battlefield of baths, one last

dance, two songs, a story,

and before I know it,

I am falling through the guilt-

rimmed edges of

foggy prayer into deep sleep

where you watch me,

dreamless.

.

But I wanted you to know that this morning 

when I drug myself out of bed early,

when I pulled on my beaten

running shoes,

when I slipped out the back door quietly,

stretched stiffly under the baobab

and then, softly

began to run,

well, that was for you.

.

Yes, the baby weight, the

blessed solitude

the pleasant lingering buzz of endorphins,

they clamored for

their share of the offering also.

.

But, my Lord,

that last half mile,

when I had nothing left to give,

when I reached into that

place just behind

my gut and below my soul,

and scrabbled

up the sandy stretch home,

moving when I could no longer move,

and breathing when I

could no longer breath,

the fears, distractions, dreams

and frustrations

all peeling off me like old skin

and fluttering to the ground

behind me,

I was straining only for you.

.

Those were my prayers.

Sweat and bile and rasping

breath for

your sake only.

worship laid on your altar

of early morning

light.