Second Morning

A Mother's Day Poem by M.W. Thomas

My second morning is sweet, simple peace.

The man of the house showers and shaves and leaves wet towels crumpled on the floor.

I watch without judgment as the rays of the sun grow longer.

I draw my legs in when the rays reach my toes,

For my second morning shall not end too soon.

Second mornings are before the hours of loneliness to come.

It is the time before the tireless waiting

For morning to become afternoon, and then afternoon to become evening.

Me and my mistress paint the night on a large soft canvass.

I keep her near as we sleep, near in my dreams, nearer still in wakefulness.

I follow her when she rises and we greet the crisp morning dew and foraging birds.

Our breakfast is simple and sparse.

When she has to leave me, I go and find the man.

My second morning extends the day

It is my parachute into a peaceful garden of quiet meditation.

When bad memories are forgotten and I can believe at last in happy portents.

My second morning is the breathing emblem of my new life:  the time after.

I am mother to many, to broods of souls I have not seen for many years.

Sometimes I dream about their sighs and whistles, but it is easy to forget.

How they have fared I do not know;

But I have my divine mistress now.

Second mornings extend the dream

Before the long wait in the afternoon shadows,

While the man increases the pile of laundry and I lose myself in the scent of home.

A single morning would satisfy most waking creatures, but not me.

I have two souls to feed and two lives to put to rest.

The warm feel of cloth and safe harbor in filtered light

Chase away those awful sticks and old hunger pangs,

Oh! Those things I barely remember now and yet can never forget.

My second morning is my refuge

Today will vanquish yesterday

It just takes a little extra time.

My second morning brings my truest rest and allows me time to think

I’ve seen my mistress cry; I’ve seen my master cry; but I understand only fear.

Fight or run is all that I know:  Still their tears have moved me.

In the soft glow of home, my trembling is steadied.

Home! Home at last!

Second mornings calm the bad thoughts.

There is no reason to run and nowhere to run to.

Still I must be patient and wait, though I hate to be alone.

I do not mark time, I do not know how,

Except in broad fuzzy strokes that divide misery from joy.

But hear this!  The power of tongues has been given to me for this one day only:

“Happy Mother’s Day dear mistress!

Happy Father’s Day dear man!”