When you
hold your baby,
when you look into her eyes and
she looks back without an ounce of fear and you know
when you hold her
you hold
your grandchildren
and your
great grandchildren
the whole
world, really
because what
else is there except
to make
meaning out of our loves
to find delight
at every new word
to see your
own face reflected in hers
to feel the
summer earth beneath your bare feet
to hear
laughter and crying
to laugh and
cry and scream and be sleepless and elated
all together
and
too close
together for it to mean nothing.
So you make
it mean something.
You say aloud to yourself
so you won't forget
I will rise
above this pain, I will rise.
I will
choose love
over indifference, I will
be surprised
by small things
delighted and inspired
by fingers
and elbows and
the smell of
her baby hair and
the taste of
the first snowflake and
heartbeats
and the way the afternoon light is
just so
across the living room floor—
These
things, you will tell your child,
are the
stuff of dreams. Here, god. Here, Love. This
is living,
this
house, this soul place where your
heart can lie down
without an ounce of fear; this
is where
meaning is made.
Not
discovered like
gravity-
that was hidden: there all along until
the apple
fell--
but instead:
created, whole and real
and new in
one step,
one sip, one tooth, one root,
one breath at a time
again and
again every day
until the
end of time
which is god
which is
unending
which is
eternal
which is how
long I will love you.
