to listen to
the sounds
of your

breath, not like
before, inside
the angst
of midnights.

Perhaps I
am learning
to be settled
in darkness,

to let the night
whisper its dark
secrets into
a starlit sky,

leaving me
with perspective
on how small

we really are –
an upturned
snow globe –

over the vast
of space.

We Write This Poem Together

The mother’s wish:
to write a poem for the daughter
as a thank you

for walks along
white hospital hallways,
days blending into night,

for the car ride here,
where each small bump
felt like an earthquake.

And the earth does tremor
a little, or at least
your understanding of it,

as all of the walls
come tumbling down
and there is nothing left

but gratitude

written from parent to child
to parent to child to parent
to child until

the end of time,
an old timey flip-book,
and the dancer dances faster

as the pages fly.
The wind flips the pages.
We watch in awe.

The clock flips the pages.
We watch in gratitude,
the mothers

and the daughters,
the sons and the fathers. We write
this poem together.