Waxing Poetic

B loves to be outside. He's my nature boy. Every morning when I open his shades he asks to go out to play. "Not now, B. It's only 7am" I reply. His first word was "water". He cries whenever it's time to go back inside. D, on the other hand, has a less obvious love of the outdoors. His body often becomes overly sensitive to all the sensory stimulation the out-of-doors provides. It's too cold, too windy, too wet, too muddy, his hat doesn't fit right, he's got the wrong shoes on, his gloves are too big, too small, too tight. While his body is screaming with sensory overload, his sweet little heart longs to be surrounded by nature. He jumps out of bed each morning and stares out his window for awhile, commenting on how blue the sky is or how it looks like a storm is headed our way. He's the first one to suggest going for a walk in the woods, or up the hill to see the horses. He collects rocks and twigs along the way and saves them for weeks after, each treasure latching on to a piece of his soul. He sits quietly on the porch to watch the leaves fall from the trees, and takes notice of the birds and squirrels who visit our birdhouse every morning. He befriends caterpillars and toads, and uses the word "beautiful" to describe the day.

He's got a poetic nature, one that doesn't always rhyme and is sometimes difficult to decipher, but also one that leaves a lasting imprint on anyone who takes the time to understand each carefully chosen word.