Delia's Morning Quiet

Delia was my grandmother. I went to live with her when I was two years old ... and stayed until I grew up and went into military service.

Little wonder that I've written about her ... even when cautioned by one instructor that he didn't want to see any "grandmother poems."

This particular poem is a combination of memories of her, of things she said, or might have said. I may have taken some liberties, but, knowing her the way I did, I don't think she would mind.

I don't think she would mind at all.

DELIA'S MORNING QUIET

Morning quiet was

always best, Delia said.

Not the soft silting

of minutes after a day

in the fields, not those

first precious seconds

after childbirth,

nor the calm after

summer storms, tearing

of an envelope, labored

reading of its words,

evening fire, supper done,

dishes stored, children

in bed.

But the kind

of quiet that came

stealing up with the sun,

sharing rooster crow

and the crackling murmur

of fire, a skillet sliding

across the kitchen stove,

sound of an eggshell

breaking with importance.

© 1999

(originally published in Poem)

***

Today's word: crackling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Hechan! That's when I feel I've really succeeded.

Oh, I think you're right, Featheredpines ... they're all in cahoots ... but I don't think they mean us any harm, except maybe in self-defense. And your mentioning camping brings to mind those early years of tent camping that we enjoyed. Even then ... especially then ... I wasn't a morning person, but there was just something about that early morning air ... the quiet, the serenity ... that brought me out of the sleeping bag to enjoy it.