Standing here at the kitchen window

stewing about something someone said 

or should’ve —

but didn’t

I feel tiny arms wrap around my right leg

her head leaning against my thigh

there's no reason why

I mean, does there need to be

when you’re three?

an impromptu showing of love

from no place in the brain

like the sun, she warms

without keeping score.

Her tiny fingernails, delicate beads

eyelids bending like crescent moons,

face lit up with joy

cheeks swollen with glee 

she looks up at me,

up to me,

omg, it's up to me.

If i could bottle it

I'd get besotted by it

oh hell, i’m drinking straight from the source

my sweet grape

white or red?

Depends on her mood, really.

Today it’s pink

last week, turquoise

tomorrow only knows.

Sun beams through the window,

she clings to my leg, that old beaten vine

and the world can burn for all i care,

for i am drunk 

on her wine.