The other night, after getting up to care for the baby, I lay in bed awake for a rare few minutes writing part of this poem in my head. I welcome your thoughts about it or about other ordinary and extraordinary moments of communion.
He is unswaddled and his sleep is still and already
Troubled by the bad things his hands do when they are free.
I wrapped him again and lay next to him on the spare bed,
Spreading my old blue robe over him for warmth,
Letting him nurse and tuck his feet into the hollow a sideways body makes.
Taking food and heat and rest from me,
He is full of quiet.
My palm is on his cold, rubbery ear,
And my fingers hold his head too young for hair.
I set him back into bed, and whispering, covered him with a blanket.
On my way back upstairs a window showed the night:
Snow and sky glowing blue and everything else
Standing black as its own shadow.
Back in bed I moved to my husband,
Healthy but always hot as a fever in sleep.
In sleep he felt the chill of my skin and turned,
Wrapping a hot arm around me,
Breathing even as waves on the shore.