The room ticks,
a cry from the bassinet,
time’s mouth
speaks again.

I rise.
the minute
declares its need.
I rock half-prayer,
half-breath;
darkness heavy as wool
wrapping us whole.

Tick of the hour,
tock of her need—
a cry,
up again.
Back and forth
we sway,
faith cradled
in the pendulum’s swing.

Time rests on my shoulder:

heartbeats
marking minutes,
slipping.

This hard, holy hour
holds us only once.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash