I dreamt of a child -
a baby so tender.
The child is not mine,
but is the daughter of a friend.
Yet, I love this child -
her scent, her softness.
I sense her growing in my arms.
In the dream I even gently change
her diaper and clean and powder her
as I softly spoke
probably about nothing,
but maybe enough of the everything
that she might be yearning to hear.
And then we three were on the street
in dusky light along with many others,
including armoured men on war horses
who were thundering our way.
I hold the child and wonder
about the warriors' blindness,
why it is that they cannot see
the tenderness, or hear the rhythmic stirrings
of a tiny heart offering itself to life,
to be held, not in strength and might,
but to rest in arms that hold, and tenderly care-fully in love.
The child is quiet. We are not afraid.
say, November 2024
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