Ceiling Stories
Waking, she sees morning shadows on the ceiling
from trees reflecting the sun and swaying in response to a warm front
crossing her state, her city, her street, her ceiling, her soul.
Rising, she hears her children’s morning voices
curl over the landing and slip under the bedroom door,
barely audible words make a nest in her heart.
Their sounds provide the melody for her ceiling stories.
She sees
a couple with their hands stacked preparing breakfast,
a mom standing at an open door in the drop-off lane,
a commuter reading headlines wearing headphones.
Dressing, she catches her husband watching her reflection.
She inspects her arms, her hips, her heart, hoping the mirror
will speak her truth. She listens closely:
You are a bridge strung taut over the Mississippi.
You are a cold mountain lake on the eve of an Oregon solstice.
You are Colorado’s aspen family moving with purpose across the centuries.
Throughout the morning, she sings.
Throughout the day, she provides.
They live in harmony and in unison.
Throughout the day, he conducts.
Throughout the evening, he guides.
Watching, his head on a pillow, his wife’s life reveals a circus
of light and darkness above him as she floats from the door
to the closet, from the sink to the bed, and reminds him to give thanks.
Listening, he hears the rise and fall of his children’s voices playing nearby
and catches their words as they swoop in to alight on his chest,
a perch on which rest after the day’s jostling.
Their words provide the melody for his ceiling stories.
He sees
a dad in his home-office listening to the telephone,
a family leaving the animal shelter with a new pet,
a couple sharing wine in the quiet hour after bedtime.
Reclining, the bedroom darkens, so he translates the shadows for his wife:
You are a stone bridge anchoring our family to the Earth.
You are a deep mountain lake full of love for us.
You are an evergreen forest sheltering our children.
Throughout the night, they dance:
They love in harmony and in unison.