Holy Saturday, and you are my littlest girl and though I’d trade my crumbling bones to keep you safe
the statistics do not look good for you

I bend to kiss your sleeping breathe
And know the night will come
When I trace the dark path to your bed and find you curled away from the world
And from me. A closed body
postured in defense, like the great lion round her cubs

And I will not know
If you will ever sleep again
The way the psalmist slept
The way a king sleeps
The way a child sleeps
Body opened to the world like the great blue heron who lifts to flight
As with all mothers
I will offer my help
And hope against all hope
That you find the middle place
And that you’ll Get through
not over or around
and that this shall all be well
that Gethsemane wood raises, transfigures your wounds

So go ahead, sleep through Saturday little one
no need to rush
linger long
and lay like a tree whose arms stretch wide towards the morning star
flail your soft arms like a crossroad
leading one way to Golgotha the other to Zion
lay like Rio’s Rendentor benedicting through the night
lay like muntins that divide light on a pane of morning glass
lay like a kite as it silhouettes it’s spine against a brilliant sun.