Mornings at 5:00

You whisper into my sleeping ear,
“Play trains.” You, in dancing bear
pajamas. Me, in t-shirt and sweatpants.

We plop on the kitchen floor,
the stone tile cool under us.
I close my eyes, inhale dawn,

wishing for a few more seconds
of sleep. You place your paw
on a wooden Brio train

and send it around the corner.
“Play trains, Mom,” you whisper
because somehow you know

to respect the sanctity of the hour.
I open my eyes, breathe in
your morning smell, like dreams

and sheets, and oranges.
“Okay,” I whisper, and place
my finger on the tiny engine.

Its green wheels get stuck
on a grout line. You peek
your head around

the corner--it didn’t arrive
on time. Let me try again.