It is dark now, my little one.
We rock beneath a long dark sky.
We should sleep now, for day is done.

You've had milk. You've had your fun.
Still house rings with your piercing cry.
It is dark now, my little one.

Mom would rest like the long set sun.
My voice cracks as my throat grows dry.
We should sleep now, for day is done.

Soft song and pout seek battle won...
I have sung many years gone by.
It is dark now, my little one.

I'll hold you close–blanket-wrapped bun.
My voice so soft–so close your eye.
We should sleep now, for day is done.
It is dark now, my little one.

Today’s post is a poem inspired by the events of last Monday night. I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of an exasperated spouse and an inconsolable baby. Our baby was loud and she thanked me for holding her close by screaming right in my ear. Still, we rocked and I sang until peace fell at last on her troubled soul.

Was it the teething medicine? Was it that she was gassy? Was it that she just needed to wear herself out? I do not know, but she is the third child. I have rocked and sung through far worse.