The room, painted in pinks and purples,
holds a dark wooden crib
inits corner.
The radiator clicks softly on,
lulling the newborn
tosleep.
Outside, wind bullies
the evergreen trees;
a yellow rubberball
rolls along the cracks of
an empty gray patio.
A babymonitor,
perched on top of the
hardwood dresser,
keeps watchwith
undulating red eyes.
I am babysitting, but
also tucked awayunder
that blue cotton blanket
listening to the lullaby
the mobile'sdangling characters
sing to me;
brought back to a time
when my own pinkroom
was lined with plump teddy bears and
bubbly hearts.
The air wasdense with baby powder and
ointment.
That little room was the extent ofmy
outer world.
I see an image leaning over my crib
pulling that blueblanket over me.
I look up and see myself.
Picking up the teething ring andbottle from the floor
I gently kiss that baby's forehead.
As I leave thatprotective room
I also leave part of myself in the
oak crib -
stilldreaming
still hoping.