Start counting,
not to three,
for the children are grown;
they heed no warning.
Not to five,
each has been accounted for,
no one lost or left behind.
Don’t count the years left to
living;
they are many still--
your body strong,
your mind easy.
Nor the weeks ‘til spring.
Winter’s arms hold you safe,
while you warm by the fire.
Don’t count the chimes of that old clock
when they cut through hollow silence.
Let them stir the memories
of a harder time,
dip between quaint piles
of folded laundry,
slide the shine of your sand-free floor.
Don’t count to two as if two
were half a number,
a fraction, or a merely a difference
left unclaimed.
Rest your head on two’s even shoulders.
Cherish the many powers
of this oddest prime.
You get the idea--
count what’s here and
not what’s missing,
not what used to be.
Know these rooms will fill again,
the dust of life recoat the floors,
demand the drapes absorb more laughter,
pile the china, fill the pails.
And you’ll be ready,
your counting done,
your hands unclasped,
your blessings many.
Author Bio:
Julianne Palumbo is a mother, a writer, and a writing encourager. As a shy young girl, poetry is where she first found her voice. She has published poems, short stories, and essays, and continues to dream about publication of her YA novels-in-verse. She is the author of Into Your Light (Flutter Press, 2013) and Announcing the Thaw (Finishing Line Press, 2014), poetry chapbooks about raising teenagers. She is the Founder/Editor of Mothers Always Write, an online literary magazine about motherhood, and a columnist for Literary Mama where she chronicles her recent journey to adopt children out of foster care. When she is not writing, you will find her in the kitchen or the garden or walking the dog.
not to three,
for the children are grown;
they heed no warning.
Not to five,
each has been accounted for,
no one lost or left behind.
Don’t count the years left to
living;
they are many still--
your body strong,
your mind easy.
Nor the weeks ‘til spring.
Winter’s arms hold you safe,
while you warm by the fire.
Don’t count the chimes of that old clock
when they cut through hollow silence.
Let them stir the memories
of a harder time,
dip between quaint piles
of folded laundry,
slide the shine of your sand-free floor.
Don’t count to two as if two
were half a number,
a fraction, or a merely a difference
left unclaimed.
Rest your head on two’s even shoulders.
Cherish the many powers
of this oddest prime.
You get the idea--
count what’s here and
not what’s missing,
not what used to be.
Know these rooms will fill again,
the dust of life recoat the floors,
demand the drapes absorb more laughter,
pile the china, fill the pails.
And you’ll be ready,
your counting done,
your hands unclasped,
your blessings many.
Author Bio:
Julianne Palumbo is a mother, a writer, and a writing encourager. As a shy young girl, poetry is where she first found her voice. She has published poems, short stories, and essays, and continues to dream about publication of her YA novels-in-verse. She is the author of Into Your Light (Flutter Press, 2013) and Announcing the Thaw (Finishing Line Press, 2014), poetry chapbooks about raising teenagers. She is the Founder/Editor of Mothers Always Write, an online literary magazine about motherhood, and a columnist for Literary Mama where she chronicles her recent journey to adopt children out of foster care. When she is not writing, you will find her in the kitchen or the garden or walking the dog.
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