The Child Sleeps

The child sleeps 
in his father's arms
still wearing the clothes 
he was taken in. We pray 

he can still dream 
of bread and the soft 
pillow on his own bed, 
at home where someone 

is trying to stitch 
their fears into 
marigolds and leaves. 
We try to gather our

courage into kindling: 
speaking and naming, 
watching and witnessing. 
We know we can hold

silence and words in 
the same hand, that knees 
can sing on the hard 
streets packed 

with snow. The child 
sleeps with his mouth open. 
Look at that kind of trust 
his body still has.