She Rose Each Day

She rose each day to roll the dough, by 5:00 AM, she served. Her apron tight around her waist, Her heart ne'er seemed unnerved. Eggs and bacon, sausage and grits, the fare always the same. She sipped her coffee. Spied her man, still dark, before sunrise came. Finished, he rose. Donned his cap and kissed her on the cheek. He knew his strength came from her. Though quiet, she's ne'er meek. Pat her on the fanny, and praise her for the meal. He'd saunter down those old back steps, another day to kill. She'd sit a while, and think to herself a mom with kids to tend. That soon would be time for them to rise, then she'd do it all again.