Child in the arms

Child in the arms sleeps.
In the dark trees a marten
bows branches beneath its weight,
before the meadow is streaked with swallows.

In the dark trees a marten
leaps from bough to bough;
chasing the clouds while the storm howls,

bows branches beneath its weight,
cradling with supple grace,
balancing the weight in my arms.

Before the meadow is streaked with swallows
that wake hungry and fierce,
in my arms, I bear the weight of joy.