When his small body is still from the busyness of being two (feet have stopped their bouncing and tapping, hands have relaxed from reaching and examining, voice has quieted from babbling and humming, eyes have closed from seeking and learning) and is finally asleep, I fly to his room in a quiet bound. Slowly turn the door handle. Softly tiptoe into the darkened room. Gently lift his head and place it back on the pillow. Pull the dangling feet and arms out from the crib railings. Snuggle his Teddy bear and fox beside him and tuck a light blanket over him. If he stirs or startles, opening his eyes to see who’s there, I whisper to him, “It’s okay, I’m just tucking you in. It’s still time to sleep. I love you.”

There’s a kind of newborn love which is utterly wild to me. The love arrives with the infant, taking up space in your heart you didn’t know was there. I stare at my baby in total adoration. I am enamored with everything about her. The tiny features. The tender nature of how delicate and needy she is, yet how quickly she is growing in size and movements. The coos, squeaks, and grunts. The smiles which are delighted by light and motion.

One day the boats were all unmoored

 and pulled into the sea

They drifted till, by storms and time,

 they sunk mercilessly. 

Hair mussed

Sleep still slipping

from the corners of my eyes

Coffee piping

Rain chilly, pattering on the tin roof

of the first home which is fully ours.