He offers
his doll milk,
tends to her
the way he
is tended to:
wet kiss, skitter
touch, murmur.
Before language
there is gesture.
He holds her—
arms wrapped
around cloth body,
pressed to his
small chest—
the way I held
him in the NICU:
fiercely, as if he
was bargain
instead of grace.

\\

He crouches
over pinecone
and needle-drop,
pointer finger
nudging. He looks
up at me, eyes
winking bright.
We count twig
knobs and call
to neighborhood
dogs. He examines
creeping charlie.
At the park we sit
under a tree, and I
tell him what he sees
among this flora:
white cedar; arborvitae,
meaning ‘tree of life.’
He stands, spreads hands
out like an offering.
I tell him again.
He moves along,
finding the scaly
leaves of his tree,
touches softly.
Points to heart.