a poem for letting a child grow up.
The edge of a feather
is thin and soft
but the shaft is stubborn
and sure.
As you hatch
my heart cracks apart;
golden yolk runs
down the floor.
You, my dear,
have tears like dew
but your stride
grows bold and firm.
I, my child,
will never tire
of bringing you
morning worm.
But come the day
when nestling’s through,
I will watch with a sigh
as, my love,
with muscles taught
you launch yourself
winging into the sky.
