What if your name was Beloved?
(as you are).
Sitting there, reading something on the bed,
glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose.
I see you
through the crack in the open door.
The room where I sit rocking Ezra is dark,
except for golden streetlights
shining through the dusty shades.
After I put him to bed he reawakens,
restless, crying. More comfort is needed.
I get that.
What if, under this warm roof
we all are really
being made new?
A night where dark comes early,
where we have fights and tears,
and later quiet, music.
It changes everything to know
he holds all things,
holds all things together.
He numbers the stars,
and we are a delight to him
in the lamp lit room.
Night fallen over us as the cold front moves in,
as the small ones finally succumb to sleep,
as we remember again our names.