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.