Do not believe for one minute, that,
You have left your crib in childhood.
Your comforter is with you even now.
And your openness too, is for ever.
These are brought along traits, from earlier time,
When you were still white as a driven drift
Unblemished by the swirl of things worldly.
Then Kestrel like you came early to stoop.
And your instincts were youthful keen.
But nostalgia for the old and familiar
Though đormant is quietly keeping you company.
And your memory inks in the pages,
Detail by detail in virtually stereoscopic neurological waves.
To be returned to, over and over.
Like everyone before us, we learn that,
Lifes’ truest security is boundaried by love,
And that sensing we are loved is best for us.
Just like a babe in a crib.
And that is a never ending need.
C 2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved