After books, a song and bottle,
I think my granddaughter will sleep
through the night.
But at the stroke of twelve, as in
the Cinderella story, the spell I cast
is broken. She wakes up.
I try everything, except
letting her cry herself to sleep.
Nothing works. And then
I look out the window. Clouds
that had obscured the night sky
have drifted away with the hours.
Bundling her in a blanket,
I carry her into the garden –
Orion visible in the heavens,
the waning moon just risen in the east,
Isn’t the sky beautiful? I sigh, then
make a wish upon a star –
a wish that moon beams and star dust
will fall heavy, like gold coins,
on her eyelids.
When she wakes at dawn, bleary-eyed,
we sit on the porch, watching the sun
paint the underbelly of clouds
in bands of mauve, salmon, pink and gold
that in long minutes fade away.
And she sighs, Isn’t it beautiful?