*I dedicate the exhibition of this poem to the reminder that our success as adults depends on how well we remember what it was like to be a child.*
Your hands are smaller than mine
next to them I find
my impulse is to show them what to do.
“Like me”, I say
“Do it this way…”
Reaching to stop and fix. To change you.
And I know the way;
it works, but may
not be the best. You might turn over
This well-known task
and, daring, ask
for me to change and follow YOU.
*Your thoughts like birds*
My dull preferred
view and method sings beneath the flight,
the colored sight,
FIRE of your imagination.
We will break through the dry leaf pile
and scatter ever fallen brown scrap,
if I can find
my way behind
Your leading. (I’m filled with doubt).
It takes courage
to really flourish
the shallowness of what I think I know.
Grateful for your
slower speech, for
your smaller reach, I know if I slow down I can follow you.