Two cardinals hopped
Through the budding branches
Of my Japanese maple today
A mated pair
And I was transfixed
By the color of the female
Normally, the males are revered
For their vivid red hue
So bright and unusual
But her tones were subdued
The colors of the dawn
Soft cream, pale yellow
And the flush of purest rose
She was the morning sky
The promise of a new day
And to me, her subtle beauty
Far outshone her flashy consort
There is fresh glory in the overlooked–
And in us
The hardwood floors of my bedroom creak
each morning as I put my feet down
to rise out of bed and start a new day.
Sometimes I groan along with them,
wanting only to turn around,
crawl into my bed,
and stay there.
But day after day,
my feet hit the floor,
the grain rough and solid beneath them.
Because feet are meant to cover ground:
to walk, to leap, to run,
chasing after the setting sun.
But there are days when it feels like the sun won’t rise.
There are days when I’d rather not try.
On those mornings, as I have before,
I convince myself, for one day more,
to put my feet on the bedroom floor.