The Wee Hours

My husband sleeps on
while Noah and I lie awake
listening to the eager plow drive by.
Lights and rumbling in the dark
draw my young son's eyes to the window
then to me,
asking.
"It's snowing," I whisper,
"Let's get up and see."
I point up while I say this,
and he smiles.

Downstairs
I pat my hip
and ask if he needs a diaper.
He smiles again.
This time it's just a diaper
and not a whole new set of pajamas.

In the wee hours
Noah plays on the patchwork
on the floor
with a ball and a tambourine.
I feed the cat
then sit nearby - writing, watching, listening.
He breathes through his mouth,
the plow makes another pass,
and Noah grows.