Being dad

I turn the covers back and slip
from bed into the chill of night.
The urge to take just one more look
and stroke his tiny head still calls.
I skip my clippers–too much noise–
and touch my toes to the cold wood floor.
Beside the crib, I reach to him:
a tummy touch to feel it rise,
a twisted blanket smoothed out soft.
I look and feel (there is no thought)
a surge of strange and gentle strength–
the strength I never knew I had
until the day I brought him home–
then comes a breath of raging joy.
I pause to blink away the tears,
then turn, and back to bed I go.