Waiting Up

The air crisp and still,
I wait for crunching ice
beneath all-weather tires.
I listen to snow, and strain
to catch a measure of dissonance
in the quiet white.

As a child sleeps to ensure
the arrival of Santa Claus,
I think of nothing.
As if God whispered, Shhhh!

The book slips to the floor
and I sleep. The light
dancing on my shadow
will bring you home.

          NICOLE HARDINA