Early Riser

In the middle of my childhood
on early winter mornings
when a slice of listless light
moved past my bedroom door

and the smell of oil seeped
from the kerosene lamp
that guided my father’s
footsteps down the dark
hallway to stoke the fire

I felt a quiet tranquility
I wasn’t old enough to understand
but somehow knew, when the cinders

crackled in the fireplace
and the warmth of my father’s voice
as cozy as the rooms he’d heated
summoned me to breakfast,
my feet scurrying across
the thawed, wooden floorboards.