Children
they arrive like dawn breaking
after a long night of doubt,
each breath they take a hymn
we didn’t know our hearts could sing.
They speak the language of beginnings,
their laughter spilling over the edges of time,
reminding us what it means to be unafraid
of joy.
They chase light as if it were touchable,
as if hope itself could be caught
in the palm of a hand
and carried home for keeps.
Their eyes wide as mercy
see what we have forgotten:
the holiness of mud,
the poetry in puddles,
the quiet bravery of a butterfly
that keeps flying despite its paper-thin wings.
They cry without apology,
love without caution,
forgive without being taught
each moment for them is the first,
and they live it fully,
as though eternity were a sandbox
and they, the architects of wonder.
Sometimes, I watch them
and envy their unbroken trust in mornings,
their certainty that someone will come
when they call.
And I think perhaps the world’s truest prayer
is the sound of a child sleeping,
the rise and fall of a small chest
believing, without knowing how,
that it is safe.
Children
they do not belong to us,
but through them,
we glimpse the better parts of ourselves
the softer edges,
the dreams we once wore
before the world grew too heavy to hold.
And maybe, just maybe,
they are not our future at all,
but our redemption
sent to remind us
of the days
when the world was still small,
and love was enough
to fill it.
