My little one wakes in the night
in search of a snuggle.
All day she runs and plays
talks and sings
dresses up and strips down
to toddle about in her diaper.
She seems like such a big girl sometimes
counting her toys:
“One, two, seven, ten, sixteen…”
“What’s after ‘e,’ Mama?
But inside, in some ways,
she’s still a baby
And sometimes she needs to come home
find that spot in my arms where she fits just perfectly,
fuzzy warm head resting on my chest,
luscious eyelids fluttering like slow-motion butterflies…
After long enough to write this poem,
and give her many kisses,
her little comfort-tank fills up again
and she nestles into sleep.