SCULPTED

Sailor here.

Mom loves the top of my head. She says it is soft and rounded and loves to rest her hand there. When she does this, I stand very still and pant. Mom wrote me a poem about the top of my head.

As I reach down to pat my dog’s head,

I marvel at what a perfect fit

Is his head to my palm.

The two meld together,

My yin to his yang.

I remember having similar thoughts

When my babies were born.

What a perfect fit,

Their little bodies meeting mine,

Nestled at my side.

It was as if they were sculpted before birth

To fit just so.

Now, with my hand on Sailor’s head,

I know better.

It is my body,

My hand

That was sculpted

Before time began

For such a fit.