To My Morning

for Tim, to whom I owe mountains of gratitude.

Peering through wooden slats casting
finger shadows across the carpet,
I am greeted by the morning's face,
all cherry-cheeked,
beckoning his playmates:

the ceiling fan
the music box
the waltzing mobile

and me.

Morning and I make faces now,
eye to eye, finger to finger.
We plot our escape down miles of stairs.

I am sure to swaddle Morning,
safe from any fall.

Come, my sunlight.
Remember: heel first
then all five toes,
slide down and go

Again.
Again.
Again.

Past the bookshelf,
past albums of maybes
(our crayon brands on the wall).

When we reach the bottom, Morning
promise you'll be proud of me.
One day I'll be yours to carry.
But for now can we delight in stair-rides

or that in this second, I can hold you?