Indulgence
She sleeps on my chest
her breathing steady,
lavender rises and calms my nervousness
For now I can hold her close,
rock her lightly,
keep her safe
It cannot last, will not spoil her . . .
It may spoil me
But I will cherish
her pudgy fingers gently reaching
for a few loose strands of my hair
to soothe herself
to allow sleep to overtake her
as she lays on my chest
I will share my bed with her
While she will allow it
Heather currently lives in the center of the universe (she’s not being egotistical, it’s true—ask any other New Yorker). She loves NYC, but misses the mountains of Utah where she grew up. Heather and her husband are glad that the baby from her poem now sleeps alone; baby two spoils her mama by having the cutest dimple ever, and hopefully will not become a kicker like her sister.
