Saturday, June 11, 2016

Rest

Down the dark hall
past papers, toys, shoes—
strewn together,
left for morning—

around the corner, welcomed by
the bathroom light, always left on
and the bedroom door—open,
to let it in a glow—

into the room,
warm, quiet, still—
a stillness soothed by soft lullabies
and steady breaths.

One clutches her worn-out fox--
her hair disheveled
her blanket twisted.

The other sleeps on his soft elephant
like a pillow—
his legs curled under,
his bottom sticking up.

they rest, unmarred by time,
or toil, or care.
This trusting rest
calls mine to me
and—somehow—sweetens it.

So I pat his back,
smooth her blanket,
and slip around the corner
down the hall
and, thankful, fall into my own
trusting rest.