by Anthony Lusardi


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.