The power of small hands
In the hush before the morning finds its name,
a child wakes first and teaches light to grow,
their laughter spilling gold without a claim,
a language only open hearts can know.
Their eyes hold skies no sorrow yet has crossed,
clear mirrors where the world appears made new;
they touch a thing, and all the fear is lost,
as if the earth remembers what is true.
With tiny hands they gather broken days,
and build from dust a kingdom without walls;
no throne but joy, no law but simple ways,
no rise to pride, no bitter need for falls.
They ask of life no armor, shield, nor guise,
yet walk unguarded through its fiercest flame;
for innocence is not the lack of wise,
it is the courage not to play the game.
A tear will come, but never learns to stay;
it falls like rain, then yields again to sun.
Their grief is brief, their wonder does not fray,
their wars are fought and ended all in fun.
O fragile strength the weary world forgets,
that power need not harden into stone;
for in their hearts no shadow lingers yet,
and love stands fearless, certain, and alone.
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