breakfast: in the beginning

In the beginning, there was:  the yellow yolk of the sun.  That was first light, wasn't it?  Each of the stars, telling their stories, gathering their bits of stone to tell stories to.

I am always beginning, it seems.  The day I declared myself dedicated enough to be called a poet.  The day I birthed my first child.  The day I fell in love with the man who became my husband.

I'm trying this, too:  letting myself be recorded in ways I never felt comfortable with before.  Letting my body tell me the wiser thing to do.  Let my plate have color again.  Let my daughter's, my son's too.  Let there be singing in the kitchen and messes.  Messes that aren't about neglect but about what we do with our hands, what we make with our bodies.  It isn't a mistake our children's easel is in there too.  We can paint with juices, or watercolor using maple leaves.  We can tell stories about snakes in the grass looking for their mommies.  We can make this a place not to stand back and watch, but to do.