He has yet to know the power
of the heavens, the inconstant
moon, and how the tides grasp
at the sea and shift
soft sand underfoot
when he will wade through the restless
rising and the inevitable falling.
He has yet to feel the wind-
swept currents that push
and that pull each wavering,
searching step, the weightless joy
of rising above the sparkling waves,
and the heavy anguish
of a darkening crest
spinning him into chaos.
Beneath those waves is where
he found me, flailing weakly, silently
against that power, turbulent tossed,
forced within myself, then gasping
through white sea foam,
vainly reaching for her
fragile, loving hand lost
in the rising and falling and
finding only flotsam of thought.
We built our castles in the sand,
and now Simon walks beside me,
coming from ice cream
and the summer sun.
His tiny steps are buoyant and free.
He lives each day inside
a joyous moment,
without past or future, outside
of time and tide.
He has yet to hear the cacophony
from within and without
of commanding voices saying
what to do, of voices saying
what should have been done,
and he cannot know how lost
I have become in my selfish sea,
how close I am to drowning.
And yet, at a moment when
the sand has shifted
and I am lost again
beneath that screaming blackness,
he speaks without words
and the voices are silenced.
I am lifted to the light
by the sudden, unexpected touch of his
fragile, loving hand
as he reaches up to hold mine,
and we continue through the calm
of the whispering trees
and his skipping step.