Quiet morning with a toddler

We would be playing spider were we sitting on a swing.
Her legs upon my hips and facing me
Her nest of soft lemon hair under under my nose
It smelled of nothing but I was bent on inhaling it.
The waves and curls lay upon each other sliding this way when I moved my nose in and that way when she turned her head.
The more frenzied locks lay farther down towards the back
They held the secrets of her toddler dream state.
Bunched up and locked in little ropes of knots.
She pokes a little sausage of a finger through her cold pizza and plucks off some dough.
Eating it with such deliberation that it seems the fate of the free world rested on which bite she took next.
Her head shifts again.
"It's waining out dayah"
The smell of wet earth moves in.
Forgotten blankets set out to dry in the fresh pre-autumn air sag heavy over the rails.