Looking down—

my finger brushes across your eyelashes,

grouped in little points from

your fight with sleep.

I gently wipe the crumbs

from your parted lips and

kiss the streaks on your cheeks.

I smooth your stringy hair

from your forehead

and place my finger in yours, curled.

Such a beautiful little person,

your face so innocent,

though for how long, I do not know.

Perhaps I should have left

the crumbs.

Photo by Lane Erickson, do not copy