poetpotter

     This poem came about when a small grandchild came for a visit. It was about naptime, I suppose, and she fell asleep on the couch wrapped in a soft gray throw.  No need for a picture. The words supply all you need. Sleeping Beauty   Blonde curls spread like a crown around her head she lies crosswise wrapped in a soft gray cover that’s warm as a kitten’s fur   Her fingers uncurl and curl, ever so slightly; her breath’s soft enough to send a feather on its way   She doesn’t hear her Papa rustling paper as he reads in the next room nor the kettle hum or the water run in the kitchen close by   Afternoon sun lights a fair complexion and the tiny veins on small eyelids; a picture book is closed, upside down beside her   There’s no knight rushing in; She’s not in line for any throne; but I’m her Grandma, and she’s royal enough for me.   © Carolyn R. Wilker Published in an earlier Tower Poetry issue