Soft to my touch and arum mild –
let common grief wash by –
come, be still, soft child.
Far from day's probing light,
we are quite apart – a node in time –
in the velvet belly of the night.
As against my chest you doze,
on my neck your mantra breath
whispers peace, sighs repose.
The parent's arms make a nest;
this I understand:
the secure child takes its rest.
But an infant on the arm
into the father's breast
pours a soothing balm.
When cares my weary spirit chafe,
how does a baby make
a grown man feel so safe?