Beginnings of a poem for an anthology on newborns.
how many woollen layers
can I bury her
against growing up too fast?
encase her smile in amber
before teething cuts into its perfection
I allow my fingers
to gather her cornsilk curls
before they are shorn away
and she skips off,
a lamb to the wilderness
the dark morning hours
when she cuddles into my side
I want to whisper charms over her
secrets that will keep her safe
Hard to remember Bumptious when she was a newborn. She seems to have always been here. She is full of new phrases lately, 'I don't want to', 'Give it back'. Asserting her independence as only a little sister can.
I had a couple poems accepted for publication today. Such a strong light feeling only matched by the sun streaming over the frozen landscape today.
Another bit of lovely news, Foo has had his first Occupational Therapy appointment confirmed. Such a relief.