I Like You Best

After dark, I like you best:

Day fades to gray,

Moonlit fingers paint stripes across your bed, your face.

I tiptoe in and rest a palm across your back

to feel you breathe—

up and down, the rise and fall;

I lean in close to breathe the sweet clean milk of you,

to feel the warmth of life

flowing in and out, in and out as you dream.

You sigh.

And I smile—serene, content—

This is my sunset.

When you’re asleep, I like you best.

 

At day’s first light, I like you best:

Dawn brings a gentle scratching,

the swish-swish of chubby elbows and knees and button nose

scrabbling against the sheets.

Then one little grunt, and soon another;

soft coos and squeals crescendo to a chorus

of joyful babbles to salute the day—

my alarm clock.

I shuffle in,

eyes bleary, all-over weary, heart warming—

and peek around the doorframe.

Two bright chipmunk eyes, two black buttons

peer up at me between the slats.

Eyes twinkle, cheeks crinkle, nose wrinkles;

rosebud lips send fireworks sparkling across the morning—

This is my sunrise.

When you’re awake, I like you best.

 

From good-morning sunrise to lullaby sunset

and every hour in between;

from your first cry to my last breath,

until the echo of us fades, our souls’ footprints blow away—

that’s when I like you best.