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People never believe me
when I tell them I recall
waking in my crib, lying watchful
while my parents dozed.
I slept there until I was two
in front of the window in their bedroom.
I remember watching the sun rise
amazed, lazy in my warm nest,
only the sound of breathing,
blood rush pulsing the words yes and yes.
Just as now I feel no need
to summon others at the moment
the miraculous occurs,
I couldn’t tell my parents then or later
that I saw God and angels and clouds
that became beliefs, most of all,
that silence was now
a cloak I would inhabit,
walk around inside
wearing it as beautiful silk
all my days.
From Rita Sims Quillen’s Some Notes You Hold (Madville 2020). Copyright 2020 Rita Simms Quillen.