Handhold

Lauren you are little,

but you won’t always be.

I can still remember

that time when  you were three. 

 

I came and sat beside 

your bed–I’d dreamt that you 

had drowned. 

 

I wanted to make sure 

that you were safe and whole 

and sound. 

 

Now I wake up in the 

morning and hear your fingers

play–whimsically but steady–

they always find their way. 

 

My baby you are growing, 

it’s hard to say though true.

But when I hold your sweaty

little hand inside of mine

 

I know the time for growing 

is not done. My dear, we’ve still 

got time. 

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On Congestion

I wonder what we are meant to learn from

 the nights we can’t breathe—the nights we

 can’t sleep for lack of air. Perhaps we are to

 realize that air is beautiful alone? Perhaps

we are to understand that to not breathe is

terrifying? So what of living? Is breathing

enough alone? To be grateful for, I mean.