At nearly-six, you're not too big
to rock to sleep at night.
You're not too old to kiss, to hold,
to sleep with a nightlight.
At nearly-six, you're not too big
for flannel pajamas and dinosaur tees.
You're not aware that people might stare
if you fall and you skin your knee.
At nearly-six, you do not care
if you fit in society's mold.
You just live and laugh and love because,
at just nearly-six you aren't old.
At nearly-six, your Mom recalls
miles of memories.
And it seems to her a paradox
how quickly those miles can flee.
Nearly-six years of shared stories.
Nearly-six years of your smile.
Nearly-six years of bottles and meals.
And, oh, how nearly-six flies!
Nearly-six, will you stay a bit longer?
Will you linger while I take you in?
I do not need to turn back time's dial,
just for a time cease it to spin.
Nearly-six and he's checking for loose teeth,
saying that he's growing tall,
asking grown-up questions,
and calling toddlers "small."
Nearly-six and he's fast comprehending
that some things can't be understood:
That the world is dark, that fear is real,
and that somehow God is still good.
Oh, twenty six year old Mother,
don't let these moments slip past.
Nearly-seven is just 'round the corner.
Fill the years with things that will last.
