Before the adults we call our children arrive with their children in tow
we take our morning walk down the lane of oaks and hemlocks, mist
a smell of rain by nightfall—underfoot,
the crunch of leathery leaves released by yesterday’s big wind.
You’re ahead of me, striding into the arch of oaks that opens onto the fields
and stone walls of the road—
as a V of geese honk a path overhead, and you stop—
in an instant, without thought, raising your arms toward sky, your hands
flapping from the wrists,
and I can read in the echo your body makes of these wild geese going
where they must,
such joy, such wordless unity and delight, you are once again the child
who knows by instinct, by birthright,
just to be is a blessing. In a fictional present, I write the moment down.
You embodied it.
~Margaret Gibson “Moment”
I easily forget to be the child who still resides deep within me, who still thrives within an aging slowing body.
The child who knew each new moment brought something perplexing and wonder-filled.
The child who eagerly woke early on Thanksgiving morning because it was a day of rich smells and tastes amid a feast of family.
The child who still remembers the joy and delight in every moment
and the blessing it is to simply be.
Thank you to my Father in heaven,
who I yearn to touch as I raise up my arms to the sky and fly.