Little one with tears in your eyes whose taste
the darkness flavors unwilled and uncharted,
does your fear blossom from the depths below
like common garden weeds waiting to be culled,
or is your storm a capillary struggle between
a fleeing dream and a waking anticipation?
Through the morning’s weak light I’ll call your name
to quiet the receding thunderclap and the taught mooring,
but you lie between worlds swimming untethered,
susceptible only to floating and freedom of choice.