11 pm: my mother's kitchen

soft yellow light glows from
where it hangs on a spnning fan
and creeps out from around the corner
of the wall
streaked with light streaming from a computer screen
spilling onto the tile
and rolling across the countertops.
the only sound is silence,
stirred by low mechanical humming
that no one can hear anyway
for necessity of selective hearing.

she steps barefoot around the corner
following the lines on the tile to the
mug on the stove,
steaming,
the hint of a teabag hanging
arbitrarily over the rim.

she is humming.
oval rimmed glasses,
and thin bronze strands frame
high hollow cheekbones
and sienna lips.
hair falling onto strong lean shoulders
and weathered hands;
evidence of a mother
after nineteen years of carrying three children.

she moves in a sepia toned lullaby,
children sleeping soundly on the carpet
in the next room
exhaling her peace and sacrifice.
there is so much confidence and grace in her step,
so much to envy
admire
adore.

white ceramic tile creaks under wear and age
and the scent of tea leaves lingers
as the soft hum
and footsteps fade to
return from where they came,
trailing steam and grace
to hang and saturate the air
in the warm yellow light
that glows on the tile.