POEM.

Sleep is overrated.
Or so you’d think in my family.
Small, tired eyes fight to stay open,
Watching, waiting for me.

POEM.

Softly feet patter up and down the hall,
Bouncing babe in arms, rhythmic footfall.
Murmured voices echo through the night.
Bleary eyes blink back first rays of light.

POEM.

I lay him in his crib beside me.
Soft, warm, sleeping.
House now quiet, in the trees birds call.
Dawn light creeping.