Every night before I came to bed,
when Sarah had already been asleep
for hours, I'd shut off the hall light and creep
into the nursery. Our son's nightlight shed
a honey-colored glow across the floor
and bathed the crib in shadow. Quiet, still,
I'd watch his face and padded quilt until
I caught a movement, or heard his small snore.
My legs would cramp, my forehead sweat as I
waited for my sleeping baby to breathe.
Not sure yet that this fragile happiness,
nestled like a young starling, would not fly
the moment I should lapse in watchfulness,
I stood there, staring, too afraid to leave.
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