Poem of the Week #117

The Queen

In the airport security line,
a small child peeks at me
over her daddy's shoulder.
He holds her in his arms
and she holds her hands
on each side of his neck
as though to steady his head.
She grounds herself, holding
her Rock of Gibraltor.

It is a gesture that loves
the thing it holds
though also has the power
to someday break it.

But for now,
her gaze so assured,
her gesture so natural.
What else are a daughter's hands
but magnets to the face
of the first man she loves?
If anyone joined me in noticing her,
we would have to bow.
She would command us awake,
saying without words,

Behold!
Care for all things,
as I care for this one
and know the true meaning
of home, land, security.

Lisa Vihos