Sleeping Late
Watching him sleep this afternoon
I recognized the miracle of his body.
I drank in its stillness,
The ease with which it found rest.
The quiet spectacle of breath pouring into his chest.
The tiny surprise of his lips,
open, unmoving and lovely.
Even the needle-fine hairs on his chin-
I knew they were growing, though I didn’t know how.
I never before realized how much space he occupied.
I was a cub curled inside his limbs,
my nose was a bud blooming from his skin,
my hand was a bird nesting in his chest.
In the clean January light
In the space of an afternoon hour I
sank into the loveliness, the easy scene:
his body and mine, and the space between.
Copyright © Kathleen Small | Year Posted 2005
|