*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,
faster-than-light,
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.
I’ll try.
