sapling

my kid hands I can't really remember

but playing the piano 

before catching the bus

empty morning, house alone

is an effortless memory.

the ritual an acorn,

baby blueprint

for the yearly rings

that came after. 

still do, still will. 

a practice that would 

carry me through 

every season of my being.

how unaware we are of 

some beginnings,

of what will stay in motion

once nudged

and what will roll just beyond 

reach and stop.

watching a life close

has my eyes wide lately

on where mine opened.