Wistful

Sometimes I get wistful.

Thinking about simple things

like the downy softness of baby hair

nestled in the crook of my elbow

as the rocking chair gently creaked.

The moment when the sun peeks through

on a cloudy morning.

The feeling of accomplishment

when the sugar carmelizes perfectly brown

and crackly on top of the creme brulée.

The intimacy of quiet moments

requiring no words between lovers

because love forms a soft cloud of understanding,

acceptance,

just so-ness.

Simple things.

Full of such richness.

The little gift of everyday miracles,

so sweet to remember.

But the wistfulness melts away

when I realize

the next miracle is just around the corner,

about to come in to view,

if only I'm paying attention.