Only once did my father admit
I'd risen as early as the bird -
the one that catches the worm,
and sing's the morning wellsong;
every other day I'd slept away
by waiting for the sun to rise,
leaving only half a day left.
He was up each, every morn,
sitting in his and only his chair
at the yellow linoleum table
in our kitchen with chairs enough
for all but only his occupied;
black coffee, strong as he was,
reading his newspaper, quietly.
How early do birds get up?
I asked him more than once.
Before you, that's for certain
was the answer I'd earned.
A mystery, like elbow grease
that I was sure came in a can.
I'd seen robins plucking worms
from the rain soaked mud
in the middle of the afternoon,
but Dad said that wasn't it;
and I've heard songs at dusk,
but those were wishes of rest
as I prayed for my soul
if I should die before I wake.
It was that one cool morning,
Easter, everyone helping
my brother with his paper route
so we could go to church together;
rolling those newspapers
rubber banding them all
in the quiet of our porch
when a bird sang its song.
I smiled as I rolled another paper
and Dad nodded his approval.
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