Special Days Poem by Christine H. Powell

Why are my days special
I'm sure that I know
She's the youngest of four daughters
And she is only four years old.
Early in the morning when the house is quiet
And we're all alone,
She says, Don't you worry mommy,
I'll stay with you while everyone is gone.
She asks a million questions, like,
What holds up the clouds?
And where does the wind go?
Cookie crumbs on her little face
She follows me from place to place.
She is my constant shadow through the day.
But do you know something,
I wouldn't have it any other way.