To think, I cradled you in my arms;
these fallible stems of summer whose strength
will come and go, and sometimes fade.
I held you close.
To think, I lowered you to where sea
met sand, and washed back again;
to think that I could barely see you.
But still, the human body will know its share of salt.
We’re all the same:
a shard of glass left softened by the waves.
To think my hands were ever smooth enough
to be entrusted with the weight of touch.
And years from now, I’ll tell you,
“God, you were so small.
Barely anything at all.
In fact, I was always terrified to hold you.
I felt like the sea,
trying to lap the shore so tenderly
with all her force.
And that is how I loved you.”