The Breakfast Table

You come in wearing the morning’s work about your hands,
and deep in the creases of your eyes.
Mud shucked in a brittle heap
you leave your boots at the door,
shed a pelt of polyurethane
its pockets of tags and split ended string.
Accept a breakfast well past your waking,
to watch your daughters rise sleep stained and stretching.

20 Comments

  1. Gorgeously rendered! I especially resonate with; “Mud shucked in a brittle heap you leave your boots at the door.”💝💝

    Reply

    1. Different audiences I tend to find. I own quite a few physical poetry collections, including the fabulous TS Eliot Prize winning C+not by Jolene Taylor, which I would recommend to pretty much everyone.

      Reply

    1. My father is indeed a farmer. A lot of my poetry, especially in my collection, revolve around growing up in a farming family. I was very lucky with how determined both my parents were to be there for small things.

      Reply

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