And one of Max on the same day, digging in the sand for the buried treasure he knows is there--how great a metaphor for prayer is that??!
It reminded me of a poem I wrote once when Max first discovered flowers--
Communion
My infant son squats
beside a starflower.
His blue-eyed stare
taking in each delicate detail--
white petals and yellow stamens dancing
with hands raised, singing
"holy holy"
in the stiff March wind.
He pulls hard on a fragile stem,
an innocent cruelty,
the blossom drops
wet, limp
curling like a whispered
prayer
cupped within his sweaty fist.
He reaches up and I bend
close,
thinking only of inhaling crushed
petals, but he pushes the flower
whole into my mouth.
I taste green and sweat, lemon
and mud, bittersweet spring alive on my tongue.
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