In the pale glint of dawn, a hawk darts
across the marsh. I wash dishes from last night’s supper.
Coffee gurgles, filling the glass carafe.
 
Alone at this hour, husband and children still asleep,
I breathe in peace—my hands deep in warm suds,
china and silver soaking amidst the bursts of bubbles,
their reflections tinged pink.
 
Outside a streak of mauve swirls and widens
over the pond, feathery as angel wings
on childhood holy cards. The sun paints
peach hibiscus, dusty blue asters, chrysanthemums,
yellow and spiky—all sprouting from the dark
of December like the star that once glowed
in Bethlehem.

© by Mary Jo Balistreri.
Used with the author's permission.