She tosses and turns
in a dream-riddled sleep
so softly
softly I might creep
up to her bed
up to her pillow
where rests her head
the day is dead
no fires are fed
I wish to ask her
what stirs her in sleep
why she cringes and cries
and why she does weep
the floorboards creak
and her eyes fly to half-mast
so for now I shall sit
and I'll watch and I'll wait
And so slowly and slowly
the hours slip past
and when infant skies
breathe a new dawn
and,
when
she wakes,
I am gone.