First snow on the ground,
bruised November dawn.
The embers in the woodstove
will last a while more. We rock
in the green chair in the darkness,
her hand tucked under my arm
as she nurses, slipping in and out of sleep.
I’m not sleeping, somehow not tired,
even at dawn after a night punctured
by little elbows and petulant cries
for wa-wa, for mama, for milk.
She smells like sunshine. She’s
bright as joy.
Oh. Delightful. This brought tears to my eyes as I recalled last winter and the many dawns I spent with my then newborn nursling. She just turned a year and still loves her morning nursies, but not quite so early. I really liked this poem.
Thank you, and welcome! The “baby” in this poem will be two in March and the dawn-waking is a pretty new development – I’m working on enjoying it. :)
So glad you are writing again…your readers wait…hungry too