I'd like to take today with me, to pack this season for later like the down in my coat.
I watch the cardinals land in our backyard from the kitchen window,
red ornaments on the dead lawn, and peck at the frost.
You squeal with morning energy, your head bumping my knee
as you walk circles around a book on the floor before squatting down to read it to yourself.
You can't say any of the words yet, but you don't skip a page.
You are thirteen months old and yesterday you kissed our dog right on the mouth.
You grabbed her face with intention, didn't give up when she turned away,
and caught her whiskers between your three tiny teeth.
You know what you want at one better than I do at twenty-six--
when you need to be held, when you're too tired to keep going,
when you're so happy
you can't help but scream it out.