What will I remember of these hours of stillness
when some day the house is full of voices and running footsteps
and you no longer fit in my arms
curled and sleeping and full of milk?

They say it goes fast,
that in a blink of an eye
you'll no longer be a baby
and I will wonder where it went.

I try to hold this time in my mind and in pictures,
to trap it with my words.
But is like trying to hold the afternoon sun that slants through the nursery window;
I can see it on your face, feel it through the blanket,
and yet it streams past my fingers,
untouchable
and fleeting.

Already your heavysoft body is bigger
and I can almost hear you growing,
getting longer and stronger
with each tiny breath. 

Your eyelashes are thicker than yesterday
and I break into a million pieces

while you,
in perfection,
sleep on.