Our verses go like this: you cry. I wake.

Our bottom rung, our drone, our underscore.

We all begin in giving as we take.

Though ragged, stanzas form and then they break.

You broke against my heart, the planet's core.

Our verses go like this: you cry, I wake.

In breast and arm, you clutch your tiny stake

We tap our lines, our rhythm we restore.

We all begin in giving as we take.

The night lamp arc that mother and daughter make

Is blessed by rabbit, bear and door.

Our verses go like this: you cry, I wake. 

And sometimes through my hair your fingers rake

And pull me through the soothing and the roar.

We all begin in giving as we take.

The iron core has not yet seen the light.

And sorrow does not enter yet - before . . .

Our verses go like this: you cry, I wake.

We all begin in giving as we take. 

Copyright 2010 by ladyslipper

(Some background here: I really did write this at two a.m. last night. I looked at the two villanelles I know that are perfect in every way: Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," and Elizabeth Bishop's  "One Art," for assistance with form and for inspiration.)

Everyone should at least attempt to write a villanelle. Or have a baby. Unless you value sleep.