Is it enough that I love you, little one, that I love your swell,
the roundness of the horizon built to contain you
and the faint ripple of your hands, little sailor. What is time
to you, who know only waves and the darkness that is
the beginning of all things. What are days when you don’t
yet know breath or the press of ground under your feet.
If you are a sailor, then I am a ship whose sails flutter
as drowsing eyes are rocked to sleep by the waves.
If you are the moon, round and whole, then I am the sky
that cradles you, holding on as we inch towards morning.