I took a break today and layed in your toddler bed.
I had to curl my body up to fit there,
while I considered the way you stretch out
and rotate in the night like the hands of our clock.
I smelled your cow and on him there was milk,
and warm breath and the scent of raisins.
I wanted to drink it in, bottle it up like this forever.
Blocking the thought that you'll only be this girl today.
Tomorrow you'll be bigger, always stretching
further into the corners and crevices of the bed.
Someday you'll outgrow these turned spindles,
and I'll clean it out and up and discover the beads
and doodled-on playing cards of your youthful collections.