A Child's Hand
No sleep in the early morning,
No rest until the late evening,
There is a budding child of mine
Rising, in joy, as I write each line.
In adoring eyes, you lifted your hand to mine
Asking, quite patiently, would I find
The lost object of your affection
Of which, having caused your affliction
of whimpering, I graciously consented.
Happy like a fool, the joy of having replaced
That which could not hold any other place
But that of your heart, you lifted your hand
Into mine, and I rose to stand,
In that gentle caress of my hand in your hand.
And, in wondrous love of all His creation,
I came to know that which is given to the patient
And to the kind. It is a good love,
Your love, that is, which comes to prove,
There is neither loss nor sorrow, from you, my dove.
Copyright © Ashley Mckennon | Year Posted 2011
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