Delight

We laugh.

You make
crooked smiles
at nine weeks
give or take
a day.

We meet the morning,
enter a flow
familiar
to the newly
born,
in 
a newtime
meander
from
sleep 
to 
sleep,
wakeful
awakenings.

Rest is
fuel for
the milestones
you
reach right before
our eyes:
You smile
at my smile.
We are
mirrors
passing in time.
Maybe I grow
younger as
you grow up.

Take my finger.
Lead on, babychild,
I’m along
for the ride.
Teach me
to love
the shadows 
of late afternoon
leaves again,
light beams
on a cracked
wall, the joy
of a jiggling
song.

Remind me
how to
be lifted
toward light,
carried
on the wings
of this wonder,
this fresh delight.