Your lake-stone rippled eyes implore the world of me,
would wash away that blood red
self destruct circle that almost cost me all.
Your fine motor finger scratches
pull me back from the edges
of your elemental bawl.
But nothing in this world scares me as much as letting you explore it,
poised precariously on that razor tightrope
swaying miles above reason.
The tugs on my heart strings grow the further you wander,
a sumptious sting I know will grow with you
my face-planting little soldier.
But when it goes south. When it gets bad.
When you can't understand
that we don't know what to do
and your throat is raw from fumbling at the vowels
- we just hold you -
keep you warm in our safe, amniotic womb.
I promise you nothing my son. I wish you nothing.
I let each day take its lake-stone rippled course;
free from regrets and oaths and enjoy the time
I don't feel I deserve
but will work to make you understand
that you do.