I lean into your cream crib
I smell in the scent of new clothing
The fresh coat of paint on the wooden crib
It’s cold outside
I can hear the soft breeze of the wind
Yet I hear your soft breaths
That should have been coming from the cream crib
Your cream crib is empty
Your linen covers unscrumbled
Your tiny duvet uncreased
I dream of a Lush place
Green grass
With butterflies hovering
Around your tiny nose
Trying to reach with your tiny fingers
Our first picnic
Our first outdoor
Now only a dream in the distant
Should I keep your crib
Should I give it away
Here I am
Standing over your space
Speaking to an empty cradle
A cradle that cannot speak back
Staring into your empty cream crib
Like my sanity has left me