Sleep now, child of fortune and morning,
sweetest bud of steadfast tree.
You’ve but a few days
to grace my arms
with your faery weight
before the waves
part us forever.
How your purity wounds me
with its songs
of stainless snowfalls
The petal softness of your cheek
scorches the tips
of my wondering fingers;
the infant goldness of your curls
binds my heart-strings to the point
where I must nearly pray to die.
I must go and you must bide.
You cannot bloom
in the shade of my pain
your baby steps
must not tread on my thorns.
But lay your balm
on the hurts of your father
let your blossoms scatter round him
spin rainbow hammocks
and moonbeam tents.
Let my smile dance from your eyes
be his candle, crown and song.
Stitch his banner with your name.
Warm him with questions
nurse him with mischief
feed him with riddles
the stars cannot guess.
This blessing, such as it may be
I lay upon you, that your hands
may cup his heart in such a way
that grief shall never be its ruin
but only open doors of glory.