Rocking the baby
as a gap between curtains
lets sun concentrate
the weight of the ache
in her palms from the handles
of this wicker weave.
She focuses on folds
in the fabric between
words, windows, worlds
and the ones she has seen
until it's enough
to have both her hands held
by this dutiful sting -
dust particles moving
like planets -
as she holds him in peace
and holds everything still
on the light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem