Woke up early to go down to write.
Four a.m. and the house still and dark,
quiet for the soft hours before action
stirs the embers of electricity, lights
and laundry, coffeemaker and TV.
I pad down the stairs so gently
but, the three year old refugee
who lives in this house has
heard and I hear the covers toss
and the quick scampering feet
and a gruff little voice that
calls, softly enough not to wake
Oma; Grumpa, Grumpa, wait!