Delia's Morning Quiet

Delia was my grandmother. I went to live with her when I was two years old ... and she reared me 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