Her soft, plump, infant hand

rests on my wrinkled, blue veined skin.

Unblemished tiny fingers

grasp my gnarled, arthritic bumps.

The contrast is startling but beautiful.

She is the newborn promise of the first bud of Spring,

I, the withered leaf about to leave the tree.

May she be showered by love

blossom no matter the storms

be true to and share her unique gifts.

Our eyes meet.

I see in hers serene depth of knowing,

the connection she still has

to the formless realm from which she came...

to the peaceful home that calls me to return.

Her baby hand pats mine

a gentle, reassuring touch that whispers,

You can go now, I'll carry on here.