You wake but cannot open
the door. Robins peek through pre-dawn.
You speak my name.
Below, one lamp lights
my shushing pleas: Gethsemane,
willing but weak. Sparrows
sweep their sopranos from mulberry.
Two peeps from the sheets,
saying Daddy together into the dark.
Quiet prayer. We sing what hope
is there. The sun climbs
its eastern stairs, skims
the well-read lines of field. And I,
I meet you at the door.
–
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry—all hoping to create “home.” He lives in a dilapidating apple orchard, and he loves shaping the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His work appears in Flying Island, Mothers Always Write, and Remington Review.