It’s in the glance,
calm and dark,
In the cadence of the steps
In the rise of the chest,
And in its quiet descent.

It’s the bubbling of a laughter
In a hopeful seeker,
A desperate witness
To a corrupted innocence.

It’s in the silver threads
On a young boy’s head,
A presage to the wise mind
Of a young man.

It’s in a longing smile
A beckoning eye,
The confidence in each stride,
It's in the rise and fall of
My head against his chest.