Day 545

A mother lays her two-week old
daughter in a tiny cradle.  Sleep
peacefully, little one, she
tells her.  She has
bathed her, diapered her,
dressed her, covered her.
The older children
are asleep already; only this one
had been awake, her small
perfect eyes looking up, up.
Up at the night sky, the stars,
beyond the flap of the tent.
Then the bombing comes,
the relentless explosions,
the smoke.  My children
are on fire! the mother
screams, doing
whatever she can
to extinguish the flames.
In the end, of all
her children, only one
remains.  The infant
gone, who lived
two weeks, gone
before her perfect eyes
could find their focus.
Before she could smile
at her mother, who now
must bury her. Only the stars
remain untouched, shine
from their infinitely distant
points in the sky
as though nothing of this
had never happened.