They call us each in their own way.
My child, mind like a countryside, was born on a misty summer evening.
Sun long gone by the time she was truly in my arms.
Small bumps along the window pane flickered in the humid sky.
Lightning bugs marking a welcoming path for her.
Small glimmers to always illuminate her eyes even in the darkest time.
My child protected.
Still a child, I sat on just-rained cement, waiting.
Knees up, arms hugging my shins.
Sometimes I waited full minutes for a trail of ants to begin,
a baby frog or some fly to pass nearby.
Still today, small winged creatures find me. Sitting on my morning papers,
walking across the dusty windshield. Nameless beauties landing on my finger or shoulder.
They are a reminder: to breathe every detail in, to allow the wind to move me
while deepening my root.