In the dim room she has a light to read by.
One foot rocks the cradle as she turns
the pages of her book. The lamp burns more
brightly than you’d think and she’s covered the cot
with a blanket to block the lamp’s light and the drafts.
Until she thinks she hears a stir and pulls
back the covering to peek again at
her beloved, book almost forgotten,
as she loses herself in his face.
Sweet sleeping peace, she calls him, my delight,
my dove, my morning star, she sings, as
the cradle thuds the rhythm: here you are
here you are, oh my love, here you are
it is good, so very good, that you are here.
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