the shape of you sleeping in our dimly lit room.
you shrieking, chasing the cat
pretending she is a coyote.
chase me, chase me
you run, narrowly missing every corner,
taking the stairs two at a time,
leaping off your stool each chance you get.
you are most contented with: 
your dump truck
a shovel, and mud.
you walk into puddles as though kissing the sea.
orcas can live here, you say
on a rainy day in April
about the puddle in our backyard. 
you spend all afternoon there
despite the weather,
hauling coffee-coloured rainwater from one end of the yard to the other.
finding worms to show me, gleefully,
running at me with your muck-splattered face.
your right eyelid is still purple from Easter Sunday.
lately, i’ve been dressing you in jeans
and a t-shirt, overwhelmed by how old you look.
you know, i see it all so differently now, my love.
a muddy backyard, full of puddles and limitless potential.
i see the dirt under your nails, a sign of time well-spent. 
i see you, moving that brown water, sloshing around the back of your dump truck
over tree roots and all that muck.
i see you, i see you, i see you.