Smallest Pair of Boots

There's a porch light on at Mama's house, a truck parked in the drive. We've been sitting on a secret for about five weeks and change. By the front door, by the work boots, by the pair that's caked in clay, there's a little empty space tonight that won't stay empty long. We're putting out the smallest pair of boots — come spring there'll be some tiny feet to fill 'em. Tell the neighbors, ring the church bell, wake the rooster — there's one more plate for Sunday lunch, one more name to hand down. The smallest pair of boots by the door. Daddy'll build the crib by hand, Mama's got the yarn out now. The dog already sleeps outside the nursery door somehow. First we'll teach 'em fishing, then we'll teach 'em how to wave at every single tractor going slow down our road. We're putting out the smallest pair of boots — come spring there'll be some tiny feet to fill 'em. Tell the neighbors, ring the church bell, wake the rooster — there's one more plate for Sunday lunch, one more name to hand down. The smallest pair of boots by the door. This old house has heard some news — weddings, storms, and better years. But it ain't never heard a sound like little feet on those stairs. The smallest pair of boots by the door — that's how y'all find out.