Sometimes, when I pull on my socks,
My grown-man’s brain winds back the clocks,
And I recall,
Being small,
When they went up over my knees,
And the Amazon still had some trees.
Bryson Thomas
Mud between my toes
Grass on my soles
Scratches on my shins
Grazes on my knees
Cap-guns at my waist
Honey-tacked fingers at my sides
Tickles on my tummy
Berry stains on my chest
Medals about my neck
Grin to my ears
Mischief in my eyes
Your fingers in my hair
Bryson Thomas
A newborn enters the world
all smiles
powdered skin
and snuggles
Toes aflex and spread-fingered giggles
A window
Free
From the smudges of experience
A parent guides this free, radical being,
Gently. Clumsily. Deftly. Poorly.
Inevitable fingerprints smear the glass.
Hoping not to obscure the horizon.
Forgive me child. I know not what I do.
Bryson Thomas
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