The sun has risen
but remains hidden
behind the houses in the East.

A month has passed without a poem
but this Sunday morning,
perched by the window,
the words fly once again.

A chapter on grief
in a book about belonging,
my son on my breast,
thoughts circle to my lineage,
maternal and tragic,
with me as the only one to nurse my children.

This Sunday morning,
two geese fly by, illuminated.
What caused the wrath in my grandmother’s mother?
Has she found ease
now that she is flying with my mother?

As the first rays of sun
get caught in the tears on my cheek,
a hummingbird.
What a beautiful way
to start the day.