The little white house glows under the light
of the waking day,
shadowed by maple trees,
high, looming,
the windows paned in black,
latched by brass handles,
clasped, secure,
atop the front door, worn,
creaking of the hinges,
after a lifetime of use.

The sun is now rising,
higher,
its glorious radiance peaking above the horizon,
flooding into the sleepy bedrooms,
silently,
as Ma shields her eyes,
rolling over in bed to face her husband,
with a single nudge,
he rises to meet the day,
along with the rest of the world.

Like countless Sundays before,
the old couple grabs their gear,
shuts the fraying screen door,
black paint peeling off,
falling to the ground below,
and trudges through the sludge,
the path behind their house
trailing,
into green brush,
soggy soil,
a pond of murky cobalt.

Ma carrying the tackle box,
the two fishing rods resting on Pa’s shoulders,
steady, comfortable,
their hands touching,
holding the other’s gently,
tracing the palms and fingers of familiarity,
love,
as they march onto the boardwalk,
toward their Sunday morning haven,
the waters of surging comfort,
the routine
not seeming boring,
or sad,
but full of excitement
for the challenge,
as every gasp of breath,
every imprint in the blankets of mud
must remain the same.
Thrilling are the moments that never change,
the times that never stray from utter perfection.