Belladonna in the Window

The berries outside the living room window
are red beyond reason;
Bright enough to make freshly fallen leaves
look old and broken
despite their ochre hue.

If I stand there long enough,
the glass becomes the old window again.
The stroller by the door,
my sweater pulled open over the small hard moon
of another child preparing to emerge.

Not a reflection, but a threshold
that only I can cross
to hold those tiny moments again.

On the days of errands and wandering,
there you are.
So small in your green monster hoodie,
its one eye tipped over your forehead,
buffalo-check poncho dragging at your knees,
but keeping you warm.

I push the stroller away from the coffee shop,
a steamed milk in a sippy cup in your hand,
something pumpkin spice in mine.

Every other block, you need to get out of the stroller
because the leaves have changed since we last walked past,
and there's a rock, and don't you know
it's even better than the last one.

Somewhere down the road someone has lit the fireplace,
and your little face lifts to sniff.
The wonder in your eyes shines,
and you try to stuff a ladybug in your pocket to keep it warm.

In the stroller basket is our Halloween decor,
a haul that you parade down the road
like you're a hunter who got the prize buck of the season.
Tiny paper bats and sticky bloody hands
are the center of your little world.

Back home, the stroller is parked by the door,
the poncho is hung up,
and your sweater is heavy with stones and leaves.
You fall asleep before dinner,
one hand tight around a single red leaf.

I stay in this place until the sky turns dark
and the red of the belladonna berries
are a beacon against the glass.

Then I leave just as I arrived:
Before you awaken,
before the stroller disappears,
before this October remembers
I don't live here anymore.