In the dark room your mom
Made yours yesterday, with the noise-box
Feigning rain, but you don’t know
The difference; you were supine, reclined,
I was holding you still but with intentional motion
Cross-wise through my chest, your head
Facing east, I rubbed your right temple, felt
Your silky hairs on the tips of my work worn
Fingers. I was afraid they might wake you.
I didn’t know whether the peaceful calm
On your face, the ease at the edges
Of your lips would last if, when I stood to lay
You down, the slight breeze reckoned
By our mutual lifting would cause you stir,
But it did not, rather, you, stately still, let me
Land you gently to the sheet - I, a farmer
Planting ancient heirlooms, a chef
Topping the main course: with the gentlest ease,
The most attentive care, and without breaking
The rhythm of my own inward song
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