Crumbs


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] Photo by Lane Erickson, do not copy