The Eighth Wonder
Chubby toes, arms flailing
in awkward desperation as I cradle your
squirmy body close to nurse. I
trace your smooth face and earnestly search for
traits of your father.
Maybe it is your deep gaze that causes my soul to long
for things this world cannot offer.
Or the gentle coos of Word made flesh.
There is so much more
To you than I understood. Â
I am shaped in your image. And yet you grew in mine.
Your presence is truly
too substantial for me to carry and
so close I can snuggle the cheek of God.
Poetry posts every Thursday at 7 pm . . . except when I am enjoying Christmas company. Blessings dear readers!