The sun had dragged itself up the sky
and found it before I did.
On the white, painted corner of the window sill
and saw it, illuminated on the nape of your neck.
As you cooed and bubbled
I let the curl capture my index finger.
A blonde feather.
A memento of your babyhood.
It grew longer and swung in the wind
as you ran and as you twirled.
It bounced at your cheek,
a little conversation piece.
Last week, it dangled, long
and almost useless at the small of your back.
We ran through the trees to the bus,
the leaves kiss our cheeks as we hurry by.
It swung onto your shoulder
right on top of your backpack strap
as you looked at me through the bus window.
You looked ahead, the sun caught your curl.