My little boy. His skin soft hair flesh pressed against my cheek. His body resonant, resting, resplendent in my arms. His willful fight released.

Thankful, I am. For the light of the city refracted on glass. Thankful, I am, for wild geese flying – singing old songs and flying new flights. For yards of grass and lengths of meadows and hills of mountains and all the woods that clump together for warmth. For conversation, friendship and wisdom. For all the brooks that babble. For all the earth that shatters, shakes and quakes. Quake my gentle heart, I am awake for you. Love my gentle body, I am blood for you. Warmth and courage inside my bones – I am fire for you. Love and heart – this is what I forged somewhere darker than the night. This is what I carry when the sea turns black and blue. Love and fire – this will set our world ablaze. So that we may see once more. Once again. Again, at last.

Thankful I am, for the spinning orb in motion and all the moments frozen still.



And all the Sundays still speeding. Slurping in to view. Sliding through the sublime. And all the children’s voices – high pitched, squirreling and querrelous. All the plastic remnants – buses, barns and buildings. Little bits of morning squished onto wooden chairs and paperback books. Curious George and curiouser and curiouser. And together I am and together we are. Full bodied footie pajamas and hairbrushes stuck in the hair. Crayon-colored spectrums of hue and light and all the sunlight streaming through chiffon. Here we are, little children, here we are, sunday morning. Here we are – little sticky pages and firm hands full of fearlessness. Strong eyes full of glitter and glow. Wild hair full of air and finality. Freedom and wilderness, contained. Fully enraptured in a tiny body, am I. Full suppressed in the sound of society, am I. Wonder and wonder – wonder of wonders…I am weary of too much without. Prose, praise, and the purring of precious moments against my skin.

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