Two days old he propped up his head
with a tiny hand foretelling the young
boy that tonight slumbers in bed
“Savor it all,” Sara, my neighbor, sung.
I know this pose must have been
something practiced while forming in me
a hand, resting on his little chin
at peace, buoyed by my salty sea.
A memory of that sacred place
held in deep darkness and water so warm.
Sensei asks, “How did your face
look before your parents were born?”
Oh, those riddles mean nothing now.
Only this – kneeling and kissing his brow.
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