Little Light

 

 

 

Sometimes my baby's head

Smells like old libraries -

I have borrowed here before.

 

I inhale his hair to open

A drawer of index cards -

Touching words.

 

I push back a tear

With my thumb -

Leaving my mark

 

I wrap my finger round a curl

Binding us together on the bed –

Covered in sun

 

Motes of dust are disturbed

Before drifting beyond the little light -

Hoping to settle elsewhere.