we were quiet yesterday

one all-day in pajamas, beneath uniformly light, and later dark gray skies,
wrapped in her husband’s too-big autumn jacket,
her hands poking out of tattered sleeves, feet on the heater,
soft rain tapping the roof top, near silence indoors,
her family is embraced in the cool Texas fog of late November.
bundled boys, huddled over make-believe, don’t jump
(as boys, they say, are prone to do when cooped up too long).
she looks outside, again, wonders if the sky will break open,
but really she imagines the beautiful, prayed for,
promised changes playing out. it is too much to hold in a moment.
she quiets her mind (for now),
coaxing her thoughts back to the gravel and trees in view.
breathing in patience, exhaling the strain of waiting, she thanks God
for her boys, their father, and nothing to call them away from the nest
before bedtime (hours away)