Part of the moon peeks through an opening in my blinds.
I am sleepless. It is my third grandchild, and she is sick.
It is way past 2 am and my cats are clawing at the rug
on the steps leading upstairs. I hear my husband snoring.
Will I ever stop worrying? After all, I am a nurse. My grandaughter
sleeps comfortable in soft terry cloth and purple bunting. Hours ago
she smiled at me when I talked in short silly sentences and rubbed
her little spikey haired head. Toy animals in her crib like sentinels
She smiles at me: a thousand dancing daisies, a million quartz
rainbows side by side. A rush of baby birds singing sweet songs
I love the way the scent of baby stays on the hands
how the motion of rocking soothes both of us lately
And I know it is late. It is not like she will not get better.
Technology and interventions, I remind myself
It is almost 3 am and I finally stop worrying.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Angelic and wonderful Grandmother you are. Lines 11 and 12 are a poem unto themselves. Phillip