Right where my scar is,
on the inside of it,
that’s where I used to feel your little fingers
moving as sweet peas do:
unfolding upwards into the air,
reaching for the breeze like
gentle, eager little things,
so keen to know what else the heights far above
into which they grow could show them.
And now I hold each precious stem in my own hands,
and I kiss each one of them, one to ten,
if you'll sit still long enough to let me.
I pray, as I go, that each would learn to hold
the fullness of the world with the same
lovely gentleness, and to keep unfurling,
always with a grateful eagerness.
