the Work

Holding hands
I read you this poem
you remind me
That it’s all about the Work
That we just keep doing the work
You voice your feeling of connection
I voice my urge to sing
You let me sing to you
While I rock back-and-forth
in my grandma’s old rocking chair
I am here in the present
And also sense the past here, too:
Holding on the way that your mother
Let you grasp her finger
through the slats in the crib
until you fell asleep.
I get a visceral glimpse of us in some unknown future
Feeling your wrinkled hand in mine
rocking
and holding
and singing
feeling
being at once
both entirely separate yet
completely connected creatures