The Gaze

for my granddaughter Kiera

She is nearly one year old

and has probably learned more

               in this year,

making all the new and strange

               familiar,

than I have in the last twenty.

However

clearly she has not heard

that stars reside light years away

because

her eyes are twin blue stars

right here

              before us.

Clearly she has not heard

that blue stars in particular

are so hot

they are gone

in the blink

of a cosmological eye.

Her twin blue stars warm

                with no danger of burning us

or burning out.

Yet there is another kind of light

that arises from her

but does not originate in her.

It is gathered by her presence,

called home by her cheeks.

I have seen this light

                on the cheeks

      of white orchids

in the rainforest of Peru

--a light that filters down through

layered leaves and

     nestles silently on petals,

a soothing glow

          that quiets you

and draws you closer.

Twin suns gazing.

Cheeks gathering.

A small smile summoning.

All saying silently together,    

“I am here.

 I see you.

          I see you

                            seeing me.        

I am awake.

                I am alive!”

C 2014 Bob Kamm

Hold the Sky

for my granddaughter, Ember

My granddaughter

               Ember

just short of

her second birthday

reaches up, out, down

because holding

is new and

             how she understands things best.

She literally grasps

                   in order to grasp

but not just with hands

           as she did some months ago

--a tiny plastic dinosaur, a piece of apple, a stick

her grandpa’s glasses—

now with her arms, her whole body.

“Hold!” she sings reaching her arms out,

                                             her tiny torso arching to the effort.

(All her words are small songs, even

single syllables have at least two notes).

She sees a tree outside

and sings, “Tree.  Hold!”

She points to the clouds

and sings, “Clouds.  Hold!”

and the sky, “Sky.  Hold! Hold!”

this one with more intensity

reaching her arms almost straight up.

 “Can you hold the sky, Ember?” I ask

“Yeah,” she answers with two notes.

“And can the sky hold you?”

“Yeah,” two notes and a nod

                       of utter certainty.

She throws her head back,

    stretches her whole body,

               rises on her toes

as if to will herself

higher and higher

    until she can

         hold the sky

and by holding

                  know it.

Later in the day

    walking alone

I look up and think,                             

“I’m almost seventy

              and maybe I’ve forgotten

                             how to understand the sky.

I’m not talking about collisions of molecules

      or the scattering of light waves.

I’m talking about

                      knowing the sky

as only a mystery can be known

    by getting your arms around it

                       pressing yourself against it

                            letting your heart beat into it

and its heart beat

            into you.

Maybe I need to reach higher.

Maybe I need to reach harder.

Maybe I need to stretch my body more.

Maybe I need to throw my toes all the way into it

                    as I once did

                              long ago

                          when I first held the sky

and the sky

         held

                me.”

C 2014 Bob Kamm