the babies we tuck in our arms
will grow old one day
and will lose their button noses
and plump, little toes—
no one told me
that one day the tender newness
is no more,
that i’d have to trade
open-mouthed kisses
and thunderstorm snuggles
for grown-up nonsense like
independence and
well-being and
responsibility—
but how can that be, little sprite?
before you knew what you know,
i collected the drops
of your whimsy
that melted into me
as you
laid against my chest as a babe—
the elixir of life and magic
that runs through your veins.
and this magic, darling,
will keep you free of the fear that will carve worry in your face
and knot your belly with the
calls of not-enough
so, no—
i can’t yet trade the kisses
for your independence or
demand the abandonment of
the light that glows
in you.
ready or not, you say.
no.
i’m not ready.
