My son comes in the morning,
touches my sleeping thigh, and reassured,
he wanders off to sit among his toys
with sunlight shimmered
on his tousled hair.

The bedside clock comes awake, garbled
words drag me from my sunken slumbers
to shoulder burdens dropped the night before
beside my slippers on the floor.

I squelch the volume, struggle from bed
as the murmured sounds of child play
float to me gently across the drowsy air.
I smile.

He is standing when I reach the door,
his hungry eyes begging for praise
for the scribbled portrait in his
outstretched little hand.

I feign wonder at his lopsided labors
and sweep him up into my arms,
he shrieks and squeals as I lift him
higher, higher, even higher
until his chubby, stubby fingers
scrape the scalloped paint
above his head.

I sit him upon the bed, whisper into his ear
a funny song I made up just for him,
he giggles and wiggles away,
back to his crayons,
and his crumbled mounds of clay.

I linger beside his gilded fields,
thankful that I can still savor
the gossamer days of childhood
that I myself have long since lost.