There’s a little person gently snoring in the little bed beside of mine.
He’s on his side with his arms flung wild and his perfect mouth so still that I can trace the tiny cupid’s bow just like his mother’s.
Fingers wiggle at the end of chubby arms as if he’s conducting a symphony in his dreams.
How is it that fraught with lack of sleep I can’t close my eyes to this little mystery?
The tiny up-and-down of his chest, the scent of his hair, his button nose, so like mine, are all things I must drink in, I must record, I must never forget.
Sleep, sweet baby, and I will watch in fascination.