Four

From their mouths,
my praise
and in their hands,
my world . . .

I do not deserve it.

Fingerprints on windows
Crayon etchings on the walls
Chubby hands around my neck
Sloppy, happy kisses
after eating ice cream . . .

The oldest one
with golden hair
and a serious face,
she loves to pat my hand,
my arm,
look at my face
with uncertain eyes
and smile a smile
that asks a question

The little girl
with golden hair
and big, happy eyes
loves to make me pictures,
five pictures a day,
and ask me if I like them
and tell me what she drew,
who the people are . . .
and tack the scrawly, rainbow sheets
to my bedroom door

The stocky little boy
Three years old
Full of hugs
and bounce and tackle,
"Watch me, Mamma!
Look at the truck!
It lost its wheel! OH!"
Full of laughing
and kisses
and, "You're my best friend!"
His presence about the house
Hangs in the air
Like a thousand exclamation points.

The baby,
Chubby, drooling, smiling,
Nibbling, making faces,
grabbing my earrings,
leaning in for kisses,
snuggling to sleep,
my little man
whispy, fuzzy blonde hair
that is good to nuzzle
while he gazes up
with trusting blue eyes;
He feels so safe.

Four lined up
My ducks in their row
My world in their hands
I wish I deserved them,
And work to give them
What they deserve.