Little Things

Elizabeth Thompson Poetry

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It’s the little things I love the most,

  the little things that make the good life good.

It’s brushing fingers with the boy-turned-man

I once begged God to turn my way,

and he smiles, twinkle-eyed,

and it’s still all for me,

  and still my heart stands still.

It’s miniature pajamas

hanging in an empty closet,


  and I never thought we’d have someone to wear them.

It’s the delightful exasperation of

folding tiny mismatched socks

  I thought I’d only buy for friends.

It’s my chubby alarm clock waddling in,

well before the dawn,

lisping, “Mommy, can I snuggle you?”

In she climbs,

and she smells like strawberries

  and promise.

It’s a victory dance for that first-time triumph;

it’s a wacky dance

just 'cause we feel like dancing—

and the sillier we look,

and the faster we spin,

and the harder we laugh,

  the better it feels.

It’s a monkey squeeze from a blue-eyed boy

who still begs Mommy to carry him,

and I’ll do it till my arms fall off

(which they may)

  because I know it will end soon.

It’s the welcome sinking of the sun—just barely night—

and I’m so weary I can hardly cross

the toy-nado zone

to collapse and prop up my aching feet,

but as I close my eyes,

I groan a prayer of thanks,

and drink it in,

and promise never to forget,

never to squander

  these little things.


About the Author

Elizabeth Thompson

Elizabeth Laing Thompson writes novels for teens, and blogs about the perils and joys of baby wrangling, tantrum taming, and giggle collecting at . She is always tired, but it’s mostly the good kind.

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