You were little. My arms limitless. I had hands that scooped like
buckets and arms that could carry you
across the sky. I could fit you any-which-way, for I
was the soil from which you grew. These
were our ripest days. We linked like an echo. You beat loudly, a heart upon my hip.
But I knew growing-up would catch
you. Turn you into a weed at my kitchen table. Drinking light.
Craning your big-boy neck towards the sun. Climbing, pushing, plowing off into the sunshine. You tumbled into blur and it was my arms that helped you go.
I’ve folded this bit of you, full, ripe, on
the verge of everything, into a perfect square. Tucked you neatly into the back drawer of my memory. There I can pull you out when I need to
feel your heaviness upon my skin. Remember
us molded by light and song. Skin
and sky. And the feeling of my
heart so full it spilt upon the floor.
