I sing to the biscuits made with butter, may their crunch feed my girls.
I sing out of tune as I dance in my socks.
Praise be for the girl who tells me to stop with the singing—
my syllable sounds always out-of-tune.
I sing to the clack & hum, clinking keys on my keyboard
I sing in alliteration & consonance, how long it took me to learn those big words
Praise be to the students who made me hone my craft skills
on·o·mat·o·poe·ia always contains the word pee, thank God.
I sing to the warm blankets that cover up the hibernating teen
her room an apartment, her bed a safe refuge as she leaves girlhood behind.
Praise be to her profile, fine nose shaped large like mine, booming laugh
that fills the room, I love her brash self, solid & fair, mine & not-mine for sure.
I sing to the shared office, how my husband moved in-to my room-of-one’s-own
he sits beside me as we work out human companionship with ribbing & love.
Praise be to his fluffy hair that matches his mother’s do, slowly it grays & thins
still part black-as-night, he lends me starshape, says look up.
I sing to the extra hour given to us this day, daylight savings in early November
let’s rant about schedule interruption & move into dark-light-short-days
Praise be to winter making us as prisoners-to-ourselves, the cold rain slashes
what summer hides: our days have a limit on this earth, make haste and sing now.
-Nancy Schatz Alton