This is Not a Poem

You have a child,
a baby just learning to walk
and he wears a blue snowsuit.
He moves across the frost-tinged
grass, each faltering step seems
to wobble all through his body
up to his head and then suddenly
he sits as if with a purpose.
You run to him and lift him under
his arms and set him on his way again.
You picture this and feel it’s one
memory that won’t fade even if you
want it to , which you don’t.
You feel also you don’t want
to  get too lyrical, use words to lull
with a rhythm of their own beyond
pictures so solid in your existence.
You also feel that metaphors are too
cute as are similes, like a freshly washed
and powdered baby, cute but not
going anywhere. You picture
your baby, the one in the snowsuit,
the real one who exists way above
any reason to shape words into
an experience of him, and thank
all that is dear to you that these words
are enough, all that is needed to
be enough to picture him walking
for the first time across the grass
away from you, hand outstretched
to grab at the family cat.

John Murphy is a retired lecturer in English and American literature and creative writing. His book, The Thing Is… is available here.