time

What I'm listening to: Older Chests by Damien Rice

My children's hands
once plump and dimpled at the knuckles
round ball of dough
warm and soft and little
their passive weight
like a feather in mine,
Now slender, with distinguishable fingers
know their own way
push and pull with confidence
peanut-buttery
keeper of tree-climbing bravery
and musical creativity
dancing over piano keys.

My children's heads,
once milky from nightly cuddles
slick from hands constantly caressing
silky, dark, downy hair
like the fur of a rabbit
Now course like mine
an art form, an expression of ever-changing self
ruffled rather than caressed
damp along the brow
and needing daily reminders,
you are big now, please take a shower

My children's legs,
once wrapped in rolls
like a chunk of chuck wrapped in twine,
fatty and delicious
graciously accepting of nibbles
and ticklish behind the knees
Now lean and long and strong
voracious speeder 
trying to catch the end of their energy
trying to leap upon the gust of wind
which will surely send them flying

It's as if time gifts me with a new child -
And every day I am grateful 
But the door is locked
and I can only peer in through windows.
A place I've been to, yet can never go back