in the small hours of morning
spooky shapes and falling dreams
disturb her angel sleep and
with night-heavy eyes she rises
– yellow blankie in tote –
and stumbles through shadowy
corridors to my bedside. tiny fingers
poke and prod me from my slumber
rousing me unaware and ill-tempered.
with a softhearted voice she stirs my
soul and i lift my covers high; fashioning
for her a tent of peace in which she slides.
huddled against my chest, our lungs
in sync, she falls fast asleep in my
embrace; so tiny, so pure, and now