Laying him down in his bed,

she pauses for a moment

to notice the shadow

they cast together

on the warm milk of the wall.

There is his head,

a purple gray orb,

flowing into her shoulder,


her neck,

the curve of her hair in its hasty ponytail.

The hair melts into

her other shoulder

and down into the frumpiness

of her sweater,

his feet,

her love handles.

She thinks she wants to capture

this image,

the milky wall,

the delicate sway as she rocks him

back and forth.

But she wonders,

could a camera

ever truly convey it?