The minimalist in me still calls
To trim the fat from every hall
Purging until I scrape the walls
Eliminating the clutter sprawl.
But the mom in me says stay,
A toy in the hall is a toy still in play,
And one by one each toy gives way
To dreadfully quiet days.
The coffee pot sputters me awake.
My children color while their waffles bake-
The younger one loves what the older one makes
So as a show of admiration she takes it
and runs away. They call me, the judge, to break
the disagreement. Pleading their case so I will slake
their thirst for justice, and I agree and forsake
My kitchen station- My mistake.
I restore peace then return for the sake
Of waffles burning, big black flakes
Into the trash- everything brakes.
We sit with what remains. We partake
And when these perfect days are over,
How will they ever be replaced
With anything but ache?