Auntie Morning

There is no place

I would rather be today

than rocking in this chair

in your house, your infant son

asleep in my arms,

his humid scent

around my face, his pearl skin

close, his hair a faint aura.

Before sleep, he had stroked

his hair for comfort. His fingers

still rest warm among the locks.

His even breaths, a deep calm

I feel at the back of my neck,

along the hard muscles of my jaw.

Off somewhere in the house

I hear music, a door open

and close, your quick footsteps,

the vacuum, the washer.

The phone rings, you answer.

Rain on small paned windows,

pines that hush in the wind, slight

weight of his back along my arm.

Fringe of yellow blanket that

sways in silence as I rock.

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