The end to the day is the child
sweetly dreaming by 8pm.
There is a diligence, and a frustration,
when it takes longer than expected.
Rewind to 4 in afternoon when
the baby’s sleepy eyes wake from a nap.
Only ninety more minutes to explore and
build until the day turns into routine:
Cut the asparagus, bring the chicken out
of oven, and set the table for three.
Pass potatoes and retell the day
until the “all done” hands raise.
Wipe faces, pour toys into the warm
bath, and help find the set of pjs.

The familiar rhythm carries you
toward lavender lotion, and hair combing,
and promises of bedtime books.
Pull out the step stool and brush
each tooth until it tickles.  Tuck you
and baby into the suede arm chair
in the corner and read Goodnight Moon
and goofy Dr. Seuss. Pray holding
tiny hands—curled inside yours.
When you switch the light, decide
how many verses of “Amazing Grace”
you need to sing.  Let white noise
conclude with the crib of blankets,
Bunny, and a sleeping child soon.

When I think about the writing process,
it is much the same—
Preparing for the close of day and
preparing what you want to say.
Rewind to the morning at 10:15
when you see a tiger play ball
behind the zoo’s glass. Her power is
radiant, but you also glimpse
her loneliness, and you ache over
misconceptions just now coming
to surface—how maybe too much
power can isolate—you hold tight
the idea until it is strapped
to a folded notecard you carry with you
just in case. Jot down a few words
and hope they ignite into something
far more complete, later.

Tonight produces words on paper
and a heartbeat in punctuation.
The day can take minutes or months
as you slow to taste the possible words,
looking for the right flavor in your retelling.
You let the water rush onto your page
as the foam letters move and take
different shapes.  You clothe in a set
that fits you best: comb, rinse, and then
let it sit.  Read other writers until
you feel calm enough to turn off the light,
letting lullabies lead you to the pillow
you can finally rest your poem.