The Cradle

By night she walks the child.
Wood - burnished by too many butts, too many boots;
Warped by too many tears.

Was the sweet aroma of sawdust, shredded bits, the dust in her nostrils so long ago?
His hands, strong as they worked another kind of wood.

Now, it feels solid under her feet for only moments at a time.
Soles thin with wear and walking.
The gnawing in her stomach a reminder to offer a cracker bit to the child.

Always the swaying, the rocking - skala svoj dete - it should be comforting now.
Knowing the passage continues...forward.

Recall the red earth, recall the green, recall his breath against her hair.

She squeezes her eyes tightly and whispers the prayer again.
Please soon, soon.

It's only that -- and the water.