In the glow of a nightlight: a baby's finger tucked in her mouth, wadded socks, a barrette cobwebbed with fine strands.
In a house near ours six children burned to death.
My daughter's heel curves like an apple in my palm. I can wrap my fingers around her foot, feeling her bones, her breath bright birds against the winter dawn. When she wakes frost veins the pane. Smoke curls from a chimney.
I touch eyebrows, nose, feel mouth tug my breast, the burn of milk. You, small acorn, in the creases of God's palm. God folds his fingers over you. That is all.