There, behind sunlight,

 

is the long pressure

of a child's love. Becoming mute

 

with the child's love. Long influence of stars touched

by the hand wrapped, asleep,

 

in the newly laundered sheets. Touched

 

to widths of butterscotch

stretched. Split-apart as the voices, rain thickening,

 

against one another forever, if glass. Forever

if resting against one another. Forever

 

if holding the end of a year like this: the nights

 

lengthening. I check: each child

 

is alive in his sleep. You are also asleep, love,

 

at the end of the yarn

 

you are weaving around the edge of a pink paper heart

fattening-quieter, now. Forever, if quieter, now.