Sunday, September 19, 2004

Becoming The Balloon Leaving A Child’s Hand

Isolation and hours
standing on end like arm hairs
respond to a host of passing
ghosts. These nonverbal wriggling

creatures of endless need,
stimulate the tenderest
reaction to humbling down;
celebrating the basest corporeal concerns;
submitting to generosity;
accepting infinite opportunities
to become the balloon
leaving a child’s hand.

O rise and rise toward love,
change diapers, wear vomit
press a deafening wail to your shoulder
and smile with a tear in one eye
about never sleeping

enough. And when it is
too much, because the days
no longer have names
because night never is
that dark womb of regeneration,

look around. Babies come everyday
at any moment. I am not alone
these hours do not have to tingle and prick.
So many of us are floating
towards wisdom. There is a price.

In gathering with other parents,
I find my way towards being present
in the gift I have received.
This ephemeral blessing of discerning
and meeting endless need fades
and recedes with time. The child
tightly holds your string. Tugs,
tugs and pushes you away
laughing. Eventually, all we are left with
are dear moments, memories,
satisfaction and new freedom’s euphoria.
A ceiling to kiss. A myriad of bobbing
colors dancing. Children holding outstretched hands.

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