Fireworks in the garden
burst into shooting stars
in awe at the red blue green rockets
of just turned three year olds
who dance for musical chairs
and the many layers of pass the parcel.
They hug and tumble and fight
over Paw Patrol cars as we look on
in the secret gasp of wonder
that they have made it this far,
that they are walking, talking little people.
As the sky explodes with their laughter,
I think please let me be here for this.
Whatever they need to cut
from the Catherine Wheel of my body,
whatever needs to be stripped
from the Guy Fawkes betrayal
of my inheritance, it does not matter
as long as I can still hold a little boy’s hand
and hear the intake of his breath
as it sparkles with life.