a poem for henry

Your mother can’t sleep because she stares at your face and kisses it too.

What’s curled up inside you?

A sweet vibrato,
A trip to the moon,
A wild pony ride?

I see pieces of my past in you:
Levi, Freda, Morris, Anita.

Your tiny fist holds their secrets and their longings,
Their struggles and their tears of joy.

Dark eyes darting, you’ll find your own way now
Using the maps they left behind
For clues.

Take me along.
The possibilities make my head spin
And the hope I feel seems endless.

That tiny fist uncurls into a hand
I plan to hold
Walking through gardens
And more.

Today is the fourth anniversary of my blog. Thank you for sticking with me all this time. You've just discovered something new about me: I am not quite a poet. Writing this blog has given me the courage to try a lot of different things. I trust myself here, mainly because you, my readers, seem to trust me too.