You don’t think
I see you,
Quivering behind the
Birch and pine.
A primitive shyness,
Wide-eyed and nibbling
Under a dark uncertain sky.
Your nervous mother
Fears for you.
I too, have felt this
Tug between anxiety and pride.
Dearest child,
Whether in the concealing woods,
Or out where the sun can
Cuddle your livelihood,
Remember –
Present to the world
Your most serene face.
