by Lee Kiblinger

You perch at a common threshold,
Eye’s gleam in doorways’ laughter,
And wave goodbye to ticking time.
I am unable to find lost words
Spilled over the milk at our table
Or heaped in mom-love letters.

I recall, smiling, how you learned letters;
Those years waited at day’s threshold,
Hours spent at the school table,
Chasing backyard butterflies in laughter,
Cuddled on the couch holding words,
Cherished moments of little time.

You grew wings with the flying time.
Gone were handwritten letters,
Swallowed with the raw words,
As you teetered at childhood’s threshold,
Joining in the uneasy laughter
Of suspicions at the lunch table.

Later kneeling at the Sabbath table,
Someone prayed for us this time,
Begetting our Sunday lunch laughter,
Then remembered in the letters,
Knowing the Spirit spans the threshold,
And prayers are more than words.

Your joy gifts me tender words.
We sip coffee at the shared table
And consider the opening threshold:
Fly rainbows and travel the time;
Never lament writing me letters;
Fill your hours with long laughter.

Tears will never drown laughter.
Days will become more than words.
Yes, you will always have my letters.
And your chair will rest at our table
Til we feast again, in time.
I hear silence at the threshold.

Yes, years waited at day’s threshold,
And words piled into time’s letters,
Leaving laughter’s echo at the table.

Lee Kiblinger is a wife, mother, literature and composition teacher, and late blooming poet. She lives in Tyler, Texas, and spends her time reading classics, grading essays, laughing with her three teenagers, and enjoying long walks. Her poetry has appeared in Calla Press. You can read more of her poetry at her new blog,

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