Finally it is evening.
In the kitchen,
the children chatter,
Outrage, then
laughter breaks
over the dishes.
I am washing up,
bent over, 
wiping away, 
the endless remains
of dinner.
We careen through chaos, 
in each others way —
yet pulled together,
like random space junk
orbiting the sun.
Intent upon routine,
I find comfort in
this domestic rhythm. 

Through the window, 
the Spring light strikes 
a stand of trees, 
the sky behind them,
thunder-dark.
The lone birch, 
where the swing 
hangs vacant,
is lit, as if by torchlight.
All alive in limb and sinew
it calls on us to notice.
We pause and stare
at this, the world cracked open,
light pours in
silver-swift.

Just as quick, 
the moment’s gone, 
an evening gift
we hold forever.