stirs me out of dreams
into a dawn
of musty canvas, damp
pillows, ribs that ache.
I crawl over the breath
of a sleeping husband, stumble
out of the tent into a thick
to sit on the ledge, legs curled
against the moss, feeding a warm
baby who nestles
his cheek against my breast,
from the sides of his mouth
as he drifts into sleep.
In the marsh that stretches before me, cattails touch
the mist. Jewelweed opens to warmth. And I wonder
what other woman in what other time sat here
like this, her sleeping son cradled
in the crook of her leg,
watching the great blue heron rise
from her nest, weaving herself
into the pattern of dead leaves and new ferns,
eyelids closed, chin raised
touched by the sunrise, drenched
with the morning,
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