by Sarah Wagner

So quickly it fades
Though I’ve fought to keep hold
He has lost that newborn smell.
He laughs brightly, lightly
Slender bars of chimes clanging
In time with his toothless smile.
Spinning joyously, freely
Cutting crop circles into the clover
Patterns that defy comprehension.
Falling back as if expecting snow
Making grass angels with daisy-tipped
Wings and baby’s breath halos.
How many spring days are left
Before summer comes and he’s on his own?
Before his fall becomes his baby’s spring?