The trust of a small child
washes over me in waves,
knocks down my adult defenses,
sweeps away all sophistication
with a flurry of sincerity,
frothy with mirth.
Mischievous eyes quiz me:
can you follow me under the table,
as baby teeth peek from the grin:
can you do this, too?
with a suddenly solemn:
could we run grandpa’s trains?
then an unexpected pout, a tearful protest:
but I want to hold it...
Unreasonableness that shouts
I’m tired, grandma, I’m hungry;
so cookies are quickly found, laid out
with drink of milk to wash them down,
and when head softly crashes beside the glass,
peace opens up like a still lagoon
in the heaving midst of childhood’s ocean.
first published in St. Anthony’s Messenger
©2002 Bonnie Manion