Today we snuck into the neighbour's garden and picked the last of the lemons from the tree. Yellow fruit has been replaced with blush pink blooms - and a swarm of bees on the sweet nectar trail.
It is most definitely spring now...Poet wears bloomers without tights, her soft white knees scratched and red from her fast-paced crawl. If I were to write a children's book right now it would go something like this:
Poet Winter couldn't walk but by gosh could she climb.
She liked to climb from the chair to the table and pull flowers from the vase. Her Muma would say "Get down from there!" but there she stayed, hiding behind her curly mop of hair.
Sometimes, when she was hungry, she would push the step stool into the kitchen and climb up to the fruit bowl. She liked to take small bites from oranges and lemons and apples too. And then her Muma would find her and say "Get down from there!"
When Poet Winter wasn't climbing she was standing. She would stand in the bath and in her highchair and on the bed and her Muma would say "On your bottom!" But Poet Winter didn't listen. She kept standing and dancing and giggling and smiling.
After the bath she would crawl away so fast that her Muma couldn't catch her. Around and around the house they would go and her Muma would say "Poet Winter, come back here now!"
At bedtime, when the night was dark and the lights were dim, Poet Winter lay down for stories and sleep. No more crawling, no more climbing, no more standing. Sleep time. And her Muma would say "Good night Poet Winter. Sleep tight."