The sun was still rising.
He stood at the bottom
of the driveway,
a shovel in his hands.
His cheeks were ruddy, wind-chapped.
Inside, their baby lay swaddled
in her arms. His pudgy body
was wrapped in a cream onesie.
Legs tucked under her,
she rocked gently in the wooden rocking chair
set in the corner of the nursery.
There were crinkles around her eyes
as she unconsciously hummed
a tuneless sort of noise.
Heavy-lidded, his eyes closed under
her watchful gaze. His breathing deepened
in sleep, while hers deepened in relief.
She leaned her head back against the padded chair.
The sun peeked out behind the brick chimney
when he finally hung his shovel on the peg in the garage.
Stomping the snow off of his boots, he stepped into the warmth
of the kitchen. Leaving his boots on the mat, he paused, listening.
All was quiet.
His woolen socks on the hardwood were silent
as he walked down the hall to the nursery.
Standing in the doorway, he rested
his head on the wooded frame. The chair
was still, their heads tilted toward the other,
his wife and child asleep in the slanting light
spilling through the paned window.