What Blessing is This?

He hurls himself
onto my leg, my chest,
from everywhere in the house
he comes flying across the floors,
bare feet smacking the wood and padding the carpet;
he is laughing, or crying, or thinking as he runs,
but always he is shouting
“I Love You, Too, So Much!”
then whispering
“i love you too so much”
and he squeezes me
and then he is gone
and I will soak it in while I have him,
while he fits in my arms.

The sight of him

The sight of him, looking out of the window, is like the presence of God.
His cheeks sit warm and plump on his little face:  plums curving perfectly in the sun;
his lips, puffy and glistening, sit above his small chin:  dew-covered honeysuckle in the morning.
The chair cradles his little-boy body, strapped in and buckled up, a toy truck clenched in his hand, one resting in his lap, and he watches the tree tops and the clouds;
he is lulled into sleepiness by the van’s vibrating lullaby.
When he blinks, I watch the lashes – they are soft as down and slow-moving,
dandelion seeds falling to the ground
where everything begins.