You have never
felt the magic of
those first, big snowflakes
unless you raised
your face to welcome
their cold dance on your skin
(admit, you tried to catch
at least one
on the tip of your tongue),
and your hands
turn numb from
throwing snowballs.
Tiny wafts of bliss
drift from my mug.
If I told you that
happiness
smells like
cinnamon and vanilla,
would you believe me?
I still glow in shades of rose and gold
in the aftermath of a gorgeous sunrise
that slowly but surely crept under my skin
while I watched Sol seize control of the day.
And while today I proudly wear my new
daytime skin, tonight as Sol descends
I will shed it in favour of cobalt and flashes of silver
and pay tribute to Mani on her lonely ride.
Under the billowing canopy
of your self-made throne,
safe from harm you sit,
legs drawn up, toes wiggling,
ash-blonde locks constantly
falling over your eyes,
simmering down after
a day full of excitement.
One sticky hand holds
your toy car in a death grip,
while the other grabs
little slices of pear
I had to cut just so,
chewing happily, unperturbed
by sweet juice running
down your chubby chin.
You’re my personal lodestone,
irreversibly drawing me
into your bubble of happiness.
november child 
