He has yet to know the power
of the heavens, the inconstant
moon, and how the tides grasp
at the sea and shift
soft sand underfoot
when he will wade through the constant
rising and the inevitable falling.

He has yet to feel the wind-
swept currents that push
and that pull each wavering,
searching step, the simple joy
of climbing above the waves,
or the sudden collapse
watching a darkening crest
engulf him in sudden chaos.

Beneath those waves is where
he found me, flailing weakly, silently
against that power, turbulent tossed,
forced within myself, then gasping
through white sea foam, searching
for a life lost, vainly reaching for
the fragile, loving hand
in the rising and falling and
finding only flotsam of thought.

We built our castles in the sand,
and now Simon walks beside me,
coming from ice cream
and the summer sun.
His tiny steps are buoyant and free.
He lives each day inside
a joyous moment,
without past or future, outside
of time and tide.

He has yet to hear the cacophony
from within and without
of commanding voices saying
what to do, of voices saying
what should be done,
and he cannot know how lost
I have become in my selfish sea,
how close I am to drowning.

And yet, at a moment when
the sand has shifted
and I am lost again
in the blinding blackness
as we walk along,
he speaks without words
and the voices are silenced.
I am lifted to the light
by the unexpected touch of his hand,
fragile and loving, as he reaches up to hold mine
and we continue through the calm
of the whispering trees
and his skipping step.