Child Bed Fever

The house grew quiet,
as a field grows winter.
The sycamore outside the window
leaned in close,
reaching with bare arms,
as a woman in a gray dress
leaned over the bed
to do her work. 

The light rustle
of last leaves,
the rasp of a soapy rag,
moving back and forth
along an arm,
lifted, set down,
with what faith
in gentleness
could still be found.