to my daughter

Your hand is just a hand
slung casually in mine

I will hold it as a shell
soft against my ear 

to listen for that intimate 
swoosh which animates 

your skin. The word “natural” 
is overused and yet

I claim it for the way
your hand just arrived

palm on candid palm
and how both hands

just curved a little - that 
instinct for grip as shelter.

A shell is a home
just as your hand 

is in mine. And this 
autumn day, walking 

by a red vine, is one 
that’s worth remembering.

17 thoughts on “to my daughter

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