In His Second Year

I love the time when he first wakes from his afternoon nap.
I listen for the pad of his bare feet in the hall.
He stands there,
silently gazing at me,
yawning.
And rubbing his eyes with his fists.
I gather him up,
still soft and rosy with sleep.
He curls in my lap,
His head against me and his eyes half open,
And together we silently rock.
He is so gentle,
so little,
And so very vulnerable.
I hold him and love him selfishly,
For he is my baby again.
For these few short moments,
Then,
slowly,
his drowsiness dissolves.
He wiggles and squirms to get away
and explore this all-too-exciting world.
I can hold him no longer,
He struggles down and run laughing from me,
And I return to the kitchen.
But I am content;
For just a fleeting, too-brief moment,
I had captured a butterfly in its flight.