Planet

It is the tragedy of childhood

that they do not know how much I love them –

my shining boy with his four-year-old need to make me proud,

my baby girl – plumpness, sunshine, all quest and zest,

my two year old – soft warm ivy around me at midnight,

a garden of language blooming daily in her mouth,

and my eldest – beautiful dance of sand and light, mirror

drinking all of me in and throwing all of me back.

They hear it daily, I love you, I love you,

they know my heart

has grown ears and eyes for them,

has its own arms

to carry their hurts,

would walk out of my own flesh for them.

But their knowledge is wanting.

They have yet to find measure for this love, genus, potestas,

though they move in it, though it stretches over and under them

like a planet they tread upon, breathing its air,

sleeping through all its watchful nights.