This morning I am the last
line of defense. A whole
household of restless people
has revolved around one
restless firstborn infant's rest,
but now everyone is resting,
even the restless infant,
everyone save me, who
rocks her back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth,
watching the slow spinning sun
weave us a golden illustration of
unknowing on the broken loom
of one dead decorative tree branch
propped among these gilded cobwebs.