today's poem

Ordinary Life

This was a day when nothing happened
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out the kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
than sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
and watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no pickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework. The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the cold hard knuckle of the year,
the day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.

(Barbara Crooker)

I could have saved this poem for mid-February, when frozen branches rattle the air and the squeak of snow under our boots has long lost its charm. But I was afraid I would forget.
Anyway, anytime is the right time for a good poem.
These simple words seem to be the reflective answer the wife gives when her husband asks her about her day. "Nothing happened," she intones, but then displays rich description of beautiful moments. Playing blocks with the baby in patches of winter sun is a luxurious activity, and one I haven't indulged in recently. Spotting a pheasant in the yard is like money in the bank. Even a zen monk cannot beat ginger tea and a roasting chicken as far as meditative props go!
What does this poem say to me? That a "day of grace" is an unexpected gift, and can be found in the midst of hum-drum. Perhaps we miss them because we are distraced by greener grass, fireworks, a new dress, or a completed chore-list.

Take a moment and unwrap your present. (double-entendre intended....)