He holds my heart
in his hands,
to tend,
or torture,
as he sees fit.
A baby,
precious and small,
holds it right,
wrapped
in tiny curled fingers.
A toddler
tugs on its’ strings,
with laughter,
and joy,
and running escapes.
A child,
makes it bursts,
with hugs and kisses,
cuddles and prayers,
and ‘I love you, mommy.’
A teen,
tears out a piece,
with hurtful words,
and solitude,
while walking away.
A young adult,
breaks it a little more
with goodbyes,
and disappearances,
and unspeakable things.
A man
rebuilds it,
returning
with long lost hugs,
and ‘I’m sorry.’
A father
holding his son,
a grandchild,
who has yet to know
he holds my heart.
A continuous cycle,
sometimes good,
from time to time, painful,
but always and forever
he holds my heart.
© Leslie C Dobson
If you liked this poem, you can find additional ones on the poetry page of Leslie’s website.
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