Poetry: ‘Toddlers Are’

Toddlers Are

Barely enough empathy to understand the patience, waiting patiently for independence, making links, gestation.

All the old discoveries discover self importance, nothing short of self assured the cord is fraught, taught and important.

Social codes aborted, brought back and re-recorded, pulled taut and then ignored and left to slacken into ocean depths of self-realised findings.

Continually unwinding.

Muted cries are signs of finding rhyme and reason from the signs that flash and dazzle an imagination.

Naked save for buffers made of foam, rubber and love, that change direction, unasked, unwanted but vaulted before the hasty plug in.

Wary eyes protection nearly fry in live connection.

Try. Cry. Correction.
Wipe. Dry. Affection.

Less than affected and never disaffection though every forward step is a minor insurrection.

Barely enough skill to uphill the mountain range and pages unstained – named but untamed – spaces are claimed, pointed out, defined and taken, understood and put in place with confidence that can’t be shaken, faked or herded.

Stumble forward, nervous – never.

Trip and slip a bit – whatever.

Control deferred to those who know that what they know is all they know.

Known dangers sit in waiting.

Unseen flirtations taking shape with days of guidance.

Careful drips – reminders slip in puddles under wires.

Over-loaded sockets.

Empty denim pockets.

Scaling worlds built for gods.

Stop it.

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