It’s not when he needs to hold my hand –
It’s not when he must hold my hand –
It’s when he wants to hold my hand
that I feel blessed.
Perfect touch of will and skin,
an embrace out of desire and affection.
When he is urged towards me by some instinct,
by some unfathomable drive –
my son holds my entire soul in his tiny fist,
throbbing with joy, feeling safe, sheltered and well placed.