[not Walt Whitman]

Begin with questions
Lead with both ears
Dig for honesty
Don’t freak out at tears

Listen for the truth
Seek the 360
Never assume
Don’t judge so quickly

He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves.  So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass.  That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him.  Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay?  You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell.  It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend.  Bring him some water.  Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.

You can only weigh the smoke
after the ashes.

You can only measure the man
after the tears.

There's a home I know where you'll find a hallway
Full of shoes and possibilities.
And an at-the-door a greeting leading to a family
Of amazing abilities, excelling in humility
Which I think is key to the near lack of hostilities
(given the number of siblings).

There's a home I know, crammed full of creativity
Exhibiting an intensity of ability
To fill the week's itinerary with spirit-led opportunities
To reflect their creator-charged curiosities
Feeding into gifted virtuosities
And long stretches of physical activities.

For example: you can taste it in the culinary.
Sense it in the musicality.
Hear it in the scratch of poetry.
See it in the smiles of story.
In the sighs of reading deeply.
In the care of cutting edge art creatively.
In the assists that deliver with accuracy.
In the allotment, tending their nursery.

You can see it in the inter-connecting
Found in faithfully praying
Hands holding, heads bowing,
Tears intersecting while seeking
The Father's counselling
And while boldly telling
Of the sudden joys and blessings
Encountered in everyday living.

Here's a family I call family
Who quietly live passionately
With no apology for the sincerity
Of their love and their daily seeking
Of their Father's leading.

Here's a family living godlily
Pointing to a greater glory
With the church-wide family
Where we'll all be feasting
At the great family wedding
Eternally.

Still yourself and this time
look the poem in the eyes.
Don't let it stare you down.
Face its challenge head on.

Show respect, yes, but show no fear.
Still yourself, lower yourself
and offer yourself as a friend.
Give it time to close the distance,

watch how it softens under your focus.
Slow your breath, synchronise
and only then - gently, patiently
reach out and let it engage.

Let it come to you.
Still yourself in its majesty,
it may surprise you.

Searching for a piece of the puzzle
Pondering the last cryptic clue
Rethinking your intended tactics
Selecting the right block to remove

Whatever choice you're facing
Whatever age you are
Remember that it's just for fun
She's still your sweet old grandma