They are starting to grow and I am so, so proud of them.
With every little achievement they succeed, they are blooming
But a selfish part of me silently cries
Because I am becoming less and less needed in their eyes.
They no longer need me to push them on the swings,
Or warn them not to pick up ***** and stinky things.
They can wash themselves and brush their own hair
And decide for themselves what clothing they ought to ware.
They have mastered Velcro and zips, buttons and laces,
But sometimes they need reminding to wipe their scrubby little faces.
They can open the fridge and help themselves to a snack
And are sneaky enough to swipe extra cookies behind my back.
They are growing quickly and will definitely be
Taller and stronger and smarter than me.
I pray for their happiness, their health and their safety.
No matter what happens they'll always be my babies.
I do and will always love them, come what may.
And I hope they will know I do each and every day.

Come,
Walk with me.
Let us stroll together, you and I,
Just the two of us,
Away from here for a spell.
Let us link arms, or hold hands, or simply walk
Side by side.
Nowhere too far
Nothing too rigorous
A leisurely step in the open.
No need for words,
But if you wish, let us speak easily,
Honestly
And respectively.
If one should ask an intrusive question
Let the other be quick to forgive
In the understanding it was asked out of care and sincerity.
Or if footfalls should be the only sound between us
We'll enjoy it for what it is
A ramble,
A wander,
A friendly saunter.
We can return when you feel it is right
Or if the hour is getting late.
And if you want to continue
I will be with you every step of the way.
Come, my friend,
Let us remind the path why it is there.

Slivers of hope remained.
Though scarce, it was enough to push on.
Then
The Call.
Hushed movements
The glimmer of faith,
A diminishing wick,
Cruelly snuffed out by the pinch of confirmation.
The waiting.
The weight of the words
A peripheral flash
Preceding a perpetual storm.
Lamenting
Sorrowful
Groans
Muffled by cupped and shaking hands.
Bowed heads and silence.
Fallen tears of volunteers.
Distorted and stricken faces
Consolidating.
Searching for other faces
Wishing they were home.

How to talk of such things
When suitable words make a game of hiding;
verbs and adjectives are not rich enough in describing?

How to speak of such things
When a brittle voice trembles in the mentioning,
Tongue tied trickery trips every uttering,
While throat clench tightly trapping sentences to the point of suffocating?

Who to hear of such things
When guttural grunts are all that come crashing
and gasping breaths are too weak for their releasing
While listeners impatiently tilt heads from my scratchy stuttering?

Who to read of such things,
When the vagueness of text can't hold true meaning
and impulsive eyes leave print that is boring,
When you can't fault the font because it is indifferent to what you are attempting?

All the while the essence of a poem is slipping,
opportunity to grasp it is fading
and inspiration waning
The moment wilting
efforts are dying.

It was as common as grey slacks on a pensioner
Though smelled much, much better,
The shampoo she used, that is.
Used in abundance my numerous others,
But
None did justice as she.
Tempting chocolate tendrils skirting down
Colliding with shoulder and nape of her milky, silky neck.
I have kissed her there,
Nuzzled,
Suckled and slept.
Blanketed by her scented threads of security.
A sort of role reversal.
The supposing weak protect the strong as they sleep
And dream of where they are.