Little Light




Sometimes my baby's head

Smells like old libraries -

I have borrowed here before.


I inhale his hair to open

A drawer of index cards -

Touching words.


I push back a tear

With my thumb -

Leaving my mark


I wrap my finger round a curl

Binding us together on the bed –

Covered in sun


Motes of dust are disturbed

Before drifting beyond the little light -

Hoping to settle elsewhere.

Little Light