Tiptoe

The twins sleep recklessly.
Limbs flung akimbo against crib rails,
Like leaves blown up against a fence.
Playing cards scattered by the wind,
All sprawl and innocent abandon.

Sneaking in on tiptoe, we peek at them,
Feeling that familiar parental guilt:
How peaceful they are.
How shameful that it seems
Easiest to love them most
Like this.