It was the eve
of the new moon
that my daughter
gave me a pebble
for my birthday.
It was gift-wrapped
with tiny fingers,
sticky with mango juice.
Last night,
I watched my son
catching moments
that I missed.
With rompish care,
he tossed my
fears and regrets
into the air,
shrieking with laughter
as they bounced
on the floor
bursting into
brilliant sunshines
of butterflies and bubbles.
For hours
he frolicked
with my awkwardness
through the rainbow vapour
and dancing smiles
while I,
in discomfort,
sprouted impossible wings
only to find that
I was too heavy
for the butterflies
and too clumsy
for the bubbles.
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Backyard Books NZ