What I don’t see

snow bush

Gordon Lightfoot– and a later cover by Harry Belafonte and Sarah McLachan– sang the evocative Song for a Winter’s Night:

The lamp is burning low

Upon my tabletop

The snow is softly falling

I read again between the lines

Upon each page

The words of love you sent me

Here, in my house, I have the Song for a Winter’s Morning:

The sky is gray 

And the snow is growing deep

But we are fed and cozy

The bread is rising and the 

Soup is simmering

And the three are playing

quietly

For this moment I don’t see the odd new gouge in the table and I don’t see the precariously overladen heap of recycling and I don’t even hear the ominous thump-thump-whump of the washing machine (it does NOT usually make that noise).

I am happy just to be here. Inside, warm, with this moment. With what I have.

In an hour or two we leap and parry again. Tomorrow is back-to-school: backpacks and schoolbooks must be rustled up repacked. Back to work: lunch bags and laptops located and work email reluctantly checked.

This is my Winter Morning.

These are the hands I love.

Author: Kate Rowland

I'm a normal human kidlit writer.