Nap Time
Drowsy little tot embedded in grandpa’s lap,
snug as a baby seahorse lodged in her daddy’s pouch.
Rocking back and forth like a pendulum in an eight-day clock,
lulled to sleep by his singing a treasured lullaby.
Vibrating tones emanate from his barrel-chested body,
Ofyn pripetshik brent a fayerl, un in shtub iz heys.
Absorbed by her brilliant presence—
miniature red lips not yet tainted by lipstick,
could be mistaken for an antique French doll.
Her transparent rose-petal skin alive
with energy pouring out of every pore—
skin so soft, he thinks of milkweed floss
he held in his hands on an autumn day
when the sky was crimson gold.
Tears roll down his bristly cheeks,
overwhelmed by the adoration of the moment,
and the epiphany that he might not even be remembered
by this grandchild with whom he was so enraptured.