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
3 Responses
This is lovely. It reminded me of the holy moments with my children through long nights and more recently of my daughter’s nights since she had her first child on Thursday. I will be sending her a link to this beautiful poem.
“This hard, holy hour holds us only once”….but the memories are deeply imprinted. Thank you.
This poem makes me think of the time when our son was a toddler. He woke up in the middle of the night, and it was my turn to go check on him, but when I got to his room, he said, “Not you, Mom!” He and I are great friends today, but that revealed the strong mother/child connection celebrated in your poem. Good job.