The Dilemma of Parental Love

Every time you take a glance: Same gray eyes, fragile tiny hands Lifted high, and eager to climb. Warm ice forms with each smile. Smooth outline stitched to skin old, Like a leaf birthed on a stick. None willing the other to go. Feet itching till distance permits. Inches high, hands learn to write. Clothed arm then spawns sweat And guided grip begins to cede: 'I can now write without help!' Tucked shorts need no 'button me' A truth you at last catch up with. Love then lurks and pipes all night But is left to dance with hard time. Love rises and raises a mark. Pushing to aim, a naive arm. Pines and cries in every miss, Takes target far-off as he hits. Little red legs recede the more As the mass of the gun graduates Slamming every door, knocks before. Seeking guidance beyond the gates. 'Listen I have been you before!' Love struggles a sit in the front. Errors grown eyes can see, births pain And a vile ghost of having failed. Love sits and watches in misery Tempted to trust, but faith not enough. Stuck in a choice with dim outcomes: Chase or give space, which will love pick?