This morning, I am brought to my knees
by the way the sun seared holes
in the bottom of the sky
so that the colour spilled out.

And then, by my daughter’s whisper,
asking if the frost outside was icing sugar
that Santa dropped last night
on a practice run.

And then, by the way the neighbour’s cat
is hiding in our ferns again,
waiting for birds or mice,
but looking very much like a cat
in a wig.

Which is the only way to explain
how I am brought to my knees
also by the clusters of little orange earplugs
that I find stationed around my house.

I consider the fact that I am normally squeamish
about these foam lumps
that have burrowed over and over
in my husband’s ears,

but my heart was defenseless this morning
when I spotted their small faceless forms
guarding unlikely treasures
like my book and the kettle.

I decide not to ask who was behind it,
especially the one I found in a mug,
choosing instead to let the gratitude
buckle me,
for the simple fact
that the husband I love
is still warm with breath,
and that the birds,
despite everything else this year,
are doing their joyful best
to wake him.