Last Updated On February 24, 2020

 

In Three Parts

 

 

He walks on stilts
Stilted
With abrupt shakes
Turns
And pauses

One ear up
And one to the ground
Muttering
Arms swing
Then flex
Sun spreads warmth like feathers
Over his hunched, bony shoulders

Insect zing
Squirrel crunch
Breeze sway

###

There’s a toddler in the waiting room.

He is full-body interacting with a toy truck.
Creating an ongoing narrative,
Cheek to carpet,
Eye-level with headlights,
Pushing it between chubby legs.
A flurry of engagement.
Freedom.
Motor sounds escaping his lips.

And I wonder
When was the last time my own felt such peace?

What would the blackbox warning on motherhood be..

*You will become a directionless blur of motion.
*You will never have monochromatic thoughts again.
*The most profound on high and the most common on low will collide and confound your consciousness daily.

Can trust and worry co-exist in a ceaseless vortex?
Is this what is known as concern?
What a tame word for it.

###

I head out back to tread the crust that he has collapsed.
Following his boot prints,
Stepping within to perhaps better comprehend him,
Assessing my own print,
Comfortably embossed inside his.

The sun’s glare is welcome,
And yet somehow intrusive,
Inviting an unwanted urgency,
An unwanted publicity,
Even as I stand in the middle of an open field
Sun-starved.

I find myself off-trail.
Ankle deep and feeling the heaviness of it,
The undeniable gravity of it,
The soaking sting of it,
The arduous extraction and re-entry of it,
The trudge.

I carry his baby self,
His inexperienced alien self,
Homeward.
His stature limits his ability to gauge distance,
To comprehend impermanence,
From his perspective all things loom large,
Insurmountable,
Casting fearsome shadows.

So I lift him.
We traverse uncertain terrain,
Sharp hardened slopes,
Awkward passes,
Thin ice,
Sleeping lions.

I set him down when progress seems manageable,
When I can bear the separateness…

He bolts.
Forward.
Out of my sight.
And I am left to follow his tracks again.

 

Last Updated On February 24, 2020

 

In Three Parts

 

He walks on stilts
Stilted
With abrupt shakes
Turns
And pauses

One ear up
And one to the ground
Muttering
Arms swing
Then flex
Sun spreads warmth like feathers
Over his hunched, bony shoulders

Insect zing
Squirrel crunch
Breeze sway

###

There’s a toddler in the waiting room.

He is full-body interacting with a toy truck.
Creating an ongoing narrative,
Cheek to carpet,
Eye-level with headlights,
Pushing it between chubby legs.
A flurry of engagement.
Freedom.
Motor sounds escaping his lips.

And I wonder
When was the last time my own felt such peace?

What would the blackbox warning on motherhood be..

*You will become a directionless blur of motion.
*You will never have monochromatic thoughts again.
*The most profound on high and the most common on low will collide and confound your consciousness daily.

Can trust and worry co-exist in a ceaseless vortex?
Is this what is known as concern?
What a tame word for it.

###

I head out back to tread the crust that he has collapsed.
Following his boot prints,
Stepping within to perhaps better comprehend him,
Assessing my own print,
Comfortably embossed inside his.

The sun’s glare is welcome,
And yet somehow intrusive,
Inviting an unwanted urgency,
An unwanted publicity,
Even as I stand in the middle of an open field
Sun-starved.

I find myself off-trail.
Ankle deep and feeling the heaviness of it,
The undeniable gravity of it,
The soaking sting of it,
The arduous extraction and re-entry of it,
The trudge.

I carry his baby self,
His inexperienced alien self,
Homeward.
His stature limits his ability to gauge distance,
To comprehend impermanence,
From his perspective all things loom large,
Insurmountable,
Casting fearsome shadows.

So I lift him.
We traverse uncertain terrain,
Sharp hardened slopes,
Awkward passes,
Thin ice,
Sleeping lions.

I set him down when progress seems manageable,
When I can bear the separateness…

He bolts.
Forward.
Out of my sight.
And I am left to follow his tracks again.

Last Updated On February 24, 2020

In Three Parts

He walks on stilts
Stilted
With abrupt shakes
Turns
And pauses

One ear up
And one to the ground
Muttering
Arms swing
Then flex
Sun spreads warmth like feathers
Over his hunched, bony shoulders

Insect zing
Squirrel crunch
Breeze sway

###

There’s a toddler in the waiting room.

He is full-body interacting with a toy truck.
Creating an ongoing narrative,
Cheek to carpet,
Eye-level with headlights,
Pushing it between chubby legs.
A flurry of engagement.
Freedom.
Motor sounds escaping his lips.

And I wonder
When was the last time my own felt such peace?

What would the blackbox warning on motherhood be..

*You will become a directionless blur of motion.
*You will never have monochromatic thoughts again.
*The most profound on high and the most common on low will collide and confound your consciousness daily.

Can trust and worry co-exist in a ceaseless vortex?
Is this what is known as concern?
What a tame word for it.

###

I head out back to tread the crust that he has collapsed.
Following his boot prints,
Stepping within to perhaps better comprehend him,
Assessing my own print,
Comfortably embossed inside his.

The sun’s glare is welcome,
And yet somehow intrusive,
Inviting an unwanted urgency,
An unwanted publicity,
Even as I stand in the middle of an open field
Sun-starved.

I find myself off-trail.
Ankle deep and feeling the heaviness of it,
The undeniable gravity of it,
The soaking sting of it,
The arduous extraction and re-entry of it,
The trudge.

I carry his baby self,
His inexperienced alien self,
Homeward.
His stature limits his ability to gauge distance,
To comprehend impermanence,
From his perspective all things loom large,
Insurmountable,
Casting fearsome shadows.

So I lift him.
We traverse uncertain terrain,
Sharp hardened slopes,
Awkward passes,
Thin ice,
Sleeping lions.

I set him down when progress seems manageable,
When I can bear the separateness…

He bolts.
Forward.
Out of my sight.
And I am left to follow his tracks again.

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