may his heart never sit down

His mouth is full of strawberries but his eyes tell me to come here.  We're at the farm for the third time this month, he's grown tired of filling a quart basket and he's wearing the berry bucket on his head.
What is it? I ask, wanting to add baby, but the word is too shy to come out.  We're in public, after all, and he's five now, he'll remind me.  That, or his little brother will correct me.  I know he's not a baby, but it's habit, and he is still my darling boy, so I just think it instead.

He's found a fuzzy white caterpillar, and after he swallows he calls to his friends, announcing his discovery as if insects are universally beloved, like ice cream and rainbows.  Or like Aunt Kate.
The younger children gather round and they begin brainstorming names.  He gives each child a chance to hold the tiny new friend, pointing out features and reminding them to be gentle.

He wants to know what kind of caterpillar it is, what it likes to eat and what it will look like when it becomes a butterfly.  He is as full of wonder as he is wonderful.  When we get home he determines that he has "homework to do," sits down at his desk and gets on it.  Without any sort of formal invitation he has fallen in love with the world, with bugs and books, with worms and words.

There are so many things I love about him, but tonight it's the way he is never not learning.