Monday morning, and we've slept in -- three of us snuggled in the same one-foot space in the middle of our king-sized bed long after the sun jail-broke the horizon and land from the darkness of night.
Rested bodies and brains and hearts, we slip out of bed quietly, one at a time, so as not to wake the remaining sleepers until all eyes open naturally, ready to greet the day and each other.
Monday morning, and normally we're all mourning something lost somewhere between midnight Sunday and the breaking of dawn
be it the return of a very-loved daddy to his 9 to 5
or a return to drinking cold tea because there's not a moment's time to catch it while it's hot
or a return to the clock and following its face instead of following the lead of our bodies as we make our ways through the day.
But there's this summer rhythm --
kept in time by the bass drum of frogs humming in the ponds
in harmony by the sweet soprano of song birds
in balance by the sun stretching out its radiant fingers further into parts of the day that used to belong to the moon
in fullness of not just numbering but feeling even the smallest gifts of the Giver in open-palmed hands
and it even saturates Monday mornings.
It seems like a miracle of summer
it's the miracle of simplicity.