Even though
the rest
of you may appear
to grow
heavy and slow
and old
and tired—I can
assure you,
your eyes
will
not. Because—
every time
I look, I see
they shall always
hold their small
truth—
so close and light,
but pressed so
tight, and cradled
hard like a
newborn child;
that life—
not yours
or mine, but life—is far
too little,
too fragile and
precious a thing—to ever
stop
protecting, to dream
of not
shouldering, to dare risk—letting
drop.