by Emily Patterson
Spring, waking at last. Birdsong
audible through the walls. The sun
taking back the six o’clock hour.
One night you slept in your room,
waking only once. I felt reborn.
The next, you nursed three times
an hour. I knew enough not to be
surprised. Still, after you drifted
into dreams, I held on,
felt you surrender to slumber
then cradled you longer. Soon
it would be morning, maybe
it already was. I knew enough
not to mind the time. To let the day
make its way to us, a tentative animal,
like the deer in the nearby ravine,
all bold eyes and stillness,
bodies not quite tame.
About the photographer: Anthony Lusardi lives in Rockaway, New Jersey. In addition to writing poetry and taking photos, he works as a freelance reporter and on the night crew at a Costco store. He has had haiku poetry published in journals including Modern Haiku, The Cicada’s Cry, hedgerow, Stardust Haiku, and The Wales Haiku Journal.
