wooden spindles & the gentlest kiss of fog and grey and blue.

papa in the nursery, building our baby a bed. the memory doesn't feel small to me, but then, nothing does.

choosing a crib, making a room, means so much. her or his first dreaming spot beyond the walls of me, from where the second star to the right will be watched for and wished on. 

(where i will rock you, where you will dream, where we will build forts strung with fairy lights and watch for snow, where i will sing you the songs we've made ours, the same ones i sing to you now, where we will read books among pillows on the floor, where your lamb sits waiting, arms out for his child.)