Sleeping Beauty, but not the fairy tale

 

 

 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 

 

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