With One Hand On The Rocking Crib Poem by Mark Heathcote
With One Hand On The Rocking Crib
With one hand on the rocking crib,
the wind sometimes takes charge
and even sleepless eyes fall prey
to alarms and wolves, baying for blood.
Death, he takes no prisoners, they say.
Today, I light another candle-
for my dearly departed daughter
on her birthday and wish sincerely.
I had one hand on her crib, still joyously rocking.
Rocking not to sleep but to wake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/29/2026 12:56:43 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
