“Touch has a memory.” 
                        –       John Keats  

We are what we touch
and yours

was so soft
I touched
so softly

the way
one might touch
a moth

with thought–
without

touching.  I knew
I couldn’t

ever be
the same.

  ~ ~ ~ 

I recall
the way

each of my sons
preferred that
touch

at bed time.

The first, in one large circle,
nape of the neck
to base of the back,
and again, until
he was still
against my chest.

And then, my second,
like a brush, but coarsely,
dragging the nails, but gently,
from bottom to top,
top to bottom, then a shift
to the right, and repeat—
though he seldom fell
asleep.

And with both, a light
sweep from the temple
to the ear, from the ear
to the eye—til it closed,
til their chest rose

and fell
more deeply.   

  ~ ~ ~

They, and You,
will never be
so small

again.  So much
has and will

change.  But

I’ve longed
for so long

to touch you
as you touched me—

to gather the gossamer
of wings, and light
a whisper

at your back—find myself,
there, as before, drawn within
visible but indelible ink,

saying,
Oh, there.  There you are.

There you are.