Migration

By

Again, you have left your solitary sleep

and journeyed on child's feet

to the warmth your sleeping mother makes,

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this breathing space you've always called

your own.

Too tired to move you, I yank at the blankets

to claim back my share, to remind you

that I too, am here, grumbling to myself

this is not the way things are supposed to be.

And you roll toward me. Your head migrates

unerringly to that space beneath my chin

where you snuggle in as if to remind me

that whatever the day has been

the love that fills this bed

is more than I might claim

by right or dreams to know.

And so I fall asleep, embraced

by the breathing that fills this space

with such delicate and, yes,

such undeserved grace.

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