Winter Sleep Arrives
by Terri Lynn Cummings



The child sports a tidy coat, trimmed hair
with a missing lock, and a rested face.
He rocks foot-to-foot to show it is he,
but I know him from every measure of space.

I’m jealous when a young man bends
and kisses his cheek, holds his hand.
Those were my endearments.

I slide past, slip away, before I can say,
“Wait for me,” but they know
I’m not ready. “Hurry back,” I cry.
“Each day, I tire earlier than the last.”
I long for sleep.





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