A cradle of love made by her arms
A Lone Mother’s Worries
The baby cries in a crib made of wood
cotton blankets to soothe his cold body’s shake
hands flailing through the early morning’s light
and tears swimming on his rose tinted cheeks.
Through the door comes his mother,
her child’s name on her delicate face’s lips
and she will feed him with her body’s nutrients.
A cradle of love made by her arms
A hush in her tone to float him back to sleep
where he dreams of silk skies and golden clouds,
and she trails a light step through the room
leaving her son’s cries to echo through the air.
After the door flutters shut
One hand clasped into the other
She whispers to the sun
Knees red from repeated hope lost in the horizon
For the faith grows weary
The more she hears his cry
And the only thing that replies is the wind
Empty without promise.
Scarlett Wilson
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