This poem is sooooo old….I had to key it in to the computer. A broadside hangs in my mom’s bedroom in Abbey Country. I wrote this poem about my step-daughter when she was just five years old. She marries this weekend. I publish this as part of her wedding celebration.
These Crisp Fall Evenings
I untangle the sheets from my daughter’s tan legs
as her lungs rock her gently through dreams
she’ll deliver to me at breakfast.
I drape the dark blanket over her
to fight the early morning chill that
drives her to our bedroom door shivering.
And through the backlight of her nightlight
I feel my back shift to the slope of my mother’s.
I feel my shoulders sag with that same sleepiness.
I feel my eyes become hers—the way they gleamed
when I would sneak a sleepy glance at her
as she pulled the blanket over me
on crisp fall evenings like these.
My breath becomes the breath I used to hear
above me in the open window’s breeze.
And my feet become hers as I pad away—
sure that my daughter sleeps
sure that that the house breathes.