Nightingale

My wings are clipped and my throat is tight.
When terrors fever in my brain
And I wake weeping in the night
There is your hush and your swish of movement.
Lullaby songs brush through the tendrils of my hair
and your whispers force my thoughts away.
Before I can wake fully, an adult whose cheeks flush
at the thought of that imaginary monster death,
when my body stills and my breath is deep,
you are there, rescuing me with your voice.
You sing on, until I fall back into sleep.