The boy is learning
what to do
with his own tiny steps.
Beyond diapers
and breast-feeding,
he’s onto the good stuff,
knocking a glass
from the coffee table,
getting his fingers caught
in doors of cabinets,
toppling and
landing on his jelly bones.
He’s putting stuff
in his mouth.
He’s touching
what is there to feel.
He’s embracing a teddy.
He’s tossing it
out of the crib.
He’s trying out
his knees, his elbows,
his arms, his legs.
He even bleeds a little
now and then.
Or runs into a wall.
And he cries –
why not-
his voice must be there
for some reason –
hungry, thirsty,
hot, cold,
or simply bored –
they’re all an excuse
for sound.
And so it’s
push, pull, reach, fall, rise –
it’s choreography for little people.
John Grey
Hi John
Because there are so many of us it truly astounds when we take the time to study the most involved thing in the known universe. Us. You have pointed that out to me. Despite their mightiness, no galaxy has written a poem.
Thank you again!
Leila
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A wonderful paean to infancy, to the dawning of reality as soon from the perspective of a tumultuous tiny tot (alliteration: Yay!). Well done, John?
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