Timeless

Awake beneath snug bedding, small arm stretched across my shoulders, sleepy child sighs on either side (beds grew cold in dark morning), auntie bear eyes me, upside down, bent between pillows.
Strong Costa Rica decaf, decorated with heavy whipping cream, first hot sip, I bow to frigid autumn morning.
Native American flutes, paper swans, circle. Notebook on comfort laden legs, morning thoughts skitter, water bugs on blue ink river.
Dreams spoken by first child awake, to himself. Three rooms away, I listen. He reveals Barney plays swords against Little Foot. Gradually covers fall away. He carries his tender frame closer, kitty held tight. I free my lap for miracles.
Young boy curled like a fetus, head on my chest, safe under violet covers I’ve wrapped around his small frame, pulled over soft corners, knobby knees, makes shelter in mom’s arms.
Beyond finger smudged frames, I witness swiftly changing leaves, brilliant golden, auburn. Our baby, “Don’t climb on her child, she’s too young” six feet from yard’s edge, her hands faded to sunshine yellow, still framed in summer green, barely dances.
Gently rocking, lips kiss soft round cheek, my head rests on wayward blond hair. I sing, “O God, guide me, protect me, make of me a shining lamp and a brilliant star. Thou art the Mighty and the Powerful,”* slower than grandma taught us, a prayer for small hands. He’s sound asleep.
No wistful sigh slows falling sand.