Lullaby

My great friend Kathy sent me this today. If I had any talent, I'd have written it myself, as I relate so well to the poet's intent.

"Nursery, 11:00 p.m."
by Robyn Sarah, from Questions About the Stars. © Brick Books.

Nursery, 11:00 p.m.
Asleep, the two of you, daughter and son, in separate cribs,
what does it matter to you
that I stand watching you now,
I, the mother who did not smile all day,
who yelled, Go away, get out, leave me alone
when the soup-pot tipped over on the stove,
the mother who burned the muffins
and hustled bedtime, tight-lipped.

You are far away, beyond reach of whispered amends.
Yet your calm breathing seems to forgive, unwinding into the air to mesh
like lace, knitting together the holes in the dark.

It makes of this dark one whole covering to shawl around me.
How warm it is, I think, how much softer than my deserving.