Saturday, June 23, 2007

You are free, my dove

I want to hold you, my child.

These are not apron strings, they are strong cords of the heart.

When you go away, you do not miss me. You take me with you.

I am there, in every movement, every cell.

But you have gone from me.

I hold but the memory.

What is this dread, this fear?

What could I do if I were at your side?

Could I counsel you, and would you hear it?

Would I ever presume to try?

Does my grief shock you?

I am usually calm and direct, objective and deliberate.

I know you must leave.

What is it that opens the flood gates?

Must this birth mean total separation?

Can we not linger as you take your first breaths?

Must the cord be severed thoughtlessly?

Can you not remain on my bosom, in my arms,

As I take in your sweetness.

In holding you, I prepare to let you go.

You are free, my dove.

Fly over the earth. Seek a place of your own.

Return with that twig. Return and go again.

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