My son comes to me from school,
with small stones he picks up in the yard.
Usually pieces of flint, kicked in
from surrounding gardens
and given two, he will tap them together
to make a beautiful sound.
A semi-plastic, resonating sound.
From a material who's broken edges and curves
fit so comfortably into his hands - and my hands
as he hands it to me …
… like it means to be
something has made us - more human
and reality driven than any textbook
or I, could ever tell.
I wonder, where you
and I came from
looking back, through your eyes
in learning so eagerly. Perhaps we are bound so tightly with
the answers, we do not see them close behind us,
yet they open before us, in our children's ways.
I wonder
in your young eyes
how it would be
to see,
sun-rays
bursting out
from behind a cloud
without for one moment,
thinking past ~ it was God speaking ~
to genuinely see nothing but our home star's light,
descending - beautifully broken through an atmosphere
it bore, by universal physical laws - yet has not yet swept away
from our born home planet's surface, like it has others -
and that's why we're here to see it, as delicate life
crystallised on some current surface of space-time.