I hear the silence pop out of nothing.
The baby gulps his water with determined breath
beside me on the floor.

He eats only my breakfast from my plate
resting on my lap when I finally spread the blanket
and bring my coffee to the ground.

I listen to the crunch of toasted rye
and watch the caraway seeds drop,
see the bacon’s burnt edges coat his hands.

In a world where everything is within reach,
solitude and quiet float like monarchs in late spring,
bright, startling, luxurious, allusive.

I forget to look for them, yet am always scrambling to find them,
and here on this blanket we are alone together with only the sounds of our living.
Sip.  Gulp.  Chew.  Swallow.

You scootch close so that our legs touch, rest your hand on my thigh, press your head to my side.
You’ve been with me twenty-three months though I feel you are visiting, flashing a rascal’s smile as you turn the bend.
I am guard, guide, confidant and safe-keeper, and you are charge, protegé, secret-teller and limit-pusher.

I search for the counterweight to the days.
One brick balancing fifty pebbles.
A shovel-full of time lifting a multitude of moments.