I grab the Old volume of my best collected Poems.

 

The light from the laptop— sitting next to me— brightens the page.

 

The daughter having slept next to me, I begin to read.

 

I turn the page over making light corner bends.

 

The sound of the turning page, the clock ticking and her gentle snoring

 

breaks the silence of the room.

 

 

 

 It is late in the afternoon she is in a deep sleep.

 

But what is she dreaming about, I can’t tell.

 

She faces the wall, her face buried under the pillow,

 

She murmurs, she smiles, maybe she is listening to the whispering of angels.

 

Sometimes she cries, she must be dreaming bad, I wouldn’t know.

 

Sometimes, she lifts her head and looks at me and goes back to sleep

 

She rolls over onto her back.

 

She usually sleeps at the same time.

 

The faint afternoon sun comes on her bed.

 

When she is asleep, a deep silence enters the room,

 

Through the fissures of the empty spaces,

 

between the words of the Poem.

 

I like to read Poems sitting beside her and thinking about my next Poem.

I love it when my daughter sleeps like an angel.

When she falls asleep tomorrow, I will do the same thing.