Early in the morning she sat on my lap.

Chubby legs, dimpled at the knee.

Golden hair, still mussed from sleep.

Warm, she lent against my chest.

To share my toast.

 

Early in the morning

we talked of many things.

She asked. “What is snow?

Why chickens lay eggs?

Where Summer comes from

and how to butter toast?”

 

Early in the morning I left for work.

She stood inside the door,

her breath frosting the beveled panes.

Hair glistening in the light.

Waving a piece of toast.

 

Early in the morning I still go to work.

I miss my little daughter.

I miss her chatter.

I miss her love.

 

All I have is my toast.

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1989