I spend my mornings with them.
My heart knows the routine and rhythm.
The kettle sings, the light comes in slow,
Two little heads bent over the table’s morning glow.

A story unfolds with a turn of the page,
Crayons wander off to a colourful stage.
Paint on a sleeve, a smudge on a chin,
We count, learn letters, there are both tears and grins.

There are boots by the door for days we wander in the trees,
Pockets of acorns and questions like these:
Why do the leaves turn red, why do they fall?
Where do the geese go? Do they have a call?

We talk the long way, we wander, we play,
The curriculum quietly folded away.
Learning, it turns out, was never a race,
Just small hands in mine and space.