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.