Too often my search for meaning
discourages rather than fuels me.
I’m too focused on theme to enjoy novels
and too focused on purpose to enjoy life –
but for those rare moments when the world shrinks
and exists only in my arms or the walls of my home,
babbling, exploring, and grinning up at me.
Then I’m no longer searching,
either because I’m distracted or
because I am reminded.



White fingers in the green cut lawn,
your small face squinting up against the light.
Your wrist swivels, you squeeze a handful of the shoots
experimentally, and release,
a method of your exploration.

Squeeze and release.
Squeeze, and release.

You peer around through squinted eyes –
you do not know this place.
Expressionless, save for a slight
wrinkle of doubt on your forehead.
You see a shadow, and your eyes
focus on it, searchingly.
Bare feet kick against the grass in excitement.
You squeal
and know this place is safe.

Squeeze, and release.
Squeeze, and release.

You coo up at the face and grin.
You do not know this place,
don’t know what the bright orb is above you
that hurts your eyes,
don’t know what the green blades are
that tickle your cheeks as you kick –
you don’t know this place, but

You know this place is safe.
You know your father’s face.
You grin and kick and clutch at the blades
and know this place is safe.