Little One

Little lighting catcher
Elemental force
Yet helpless
This squirming pink goddess
That will one day call me father
But for now speaks only in riddles
Archaic tongue of innocence
Lost to those who claim wisdom
For they have eaten from the tree.
Maybe she will teach us all
The meaning of this bedlam
But for now she only watches
With her toes placed firmly in her mouth
Practice for adulthood, I guess.

Ten perfect little fingers
Divided between two perfect little hands
So delicate, and yet containing such strength
That they rival that of Atlas
And hold all of creation within them.
The future itself is her plaything
Hers to do with as she pleases
But whatever her choices may be
I know they will be grand
I hear it in her every “Goo” and “Gaa”
And see it in her cherub’s grin.

And finally I am granted the knowledge
Of my own existence and it’s meaning.
My purpose is her.
I, at best a jester,
At worst just a fool,
Given the colossal task
Of teacher, guardian, father
And I revel in my duties
For in her eyes I see something
That I thought was lost to me forever,
All the magic left in this world
In a simple word like hope.