We don’t grow up. We thicken. Years

surround us like the rings of trees

to sing the stories of our youth

composed of times both rough and smooth

but either way, a sturdy shield

of streetwise tricks and skills to wield

against the many threats that loom

outwith the safety of the womb.

The shield is flawed. One weakness, love

unlocks the chains of Russian dolls

to find the infant, small and meek

afloat in childish hopes and dreams

of finding one it trusts to hold

its naked, fragile, youthful soul,

with whom to share and rediscover

life enriched with simple pleasure.

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illustration © Lori Love