<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
This is Not a Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n You have a child, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\na baby just learning to walk
\nand he wears a blue snowsuit.
\nHe moves across the frost-tinged
\ngrass, each faltering step seems
\nto wobble all through his body
\nup to his head and then suddenly
\nhe sits as if with a purpose.
\nYou run to him and lift him under
\nhis arms and set him on his way again.
\nYou picture this and feel it\u2019s one
\nmemory that won\u2019t fade even if you
\nwant it to , which you don\u2019t.
\nYou feel also you don\u2019t want
\nto \u00a0get too lyrical, use words to lull
\nwith a rhythm of their own beyond
\npictures so solid in your existence.
\nYou also feel that metaphors are too
\ncute as are similes, like a freshly washed
\nand powdered baby, cute but not
\ngoing anywhere. You picture
\nyour baby, the one in the snowsuit,
\nthe real one who exists way above
\nany reason to shape words into
\nan experience of him, and thank
\nall that is dear to you that these words
\nare enough, all that is needed to
\nbe enough to picture him walking
\nfor the first time across the grass
\naway from you, hand outstretched
\nto grab at the family cat.<\/p>\n