the room of sun

The 'dining room,'
in the house where I grew up,
is mislabeled.
I always knew,
but the naming of things
seemed to me
the realm of grown-ups.

It was the room of cats,
squinting contentedly
as they bathed in the
commonplace splendor
of the mid-morning sun.

In fact, it was the room of sun;
the sliding glass doors
breathed in warmth and light—
like a child filling her lungs
before her journey to the bottom of the pool.

It was the room of the New York Times;
though it was Wednesday, the Sunday edition
still sprawled across the tablecloth,
the gloss of the magazine glistened
amid the pile of coarser grays and blacks.

It was the room of lazy mornings and coffee,
of slow reading and hope,
of life, love and of
everything that has ever
shone like the sun.