Not-so Little Wonder

He came into the world 
with ink stains on his fingers—
an artist with ancient visions, 
reborn and reconnected—
a hero, a maker, a sage.

He sees the world 
as a blank canvas 
his pen and paper 
the mode and medium 
for his wisdom.

He seems to know the end 
is different from the beginning—
that transformation 
is a journey of sky and earth, 
of water and fire. His 
fingers find the framework

for setting things right, 
for sensing the needs,
for seeing peace to fruition.
Joy keeps him grounded; 
compassion owns his soul.

Many have tried to claim him, but you cannot tame tenderness. 
He does not dally 
in the dimness of dusk 
but delights in the dawn.

Sometimes I catch myself staring 
at his ink stained fingers
and remembering the sugar sand 
of Emerald Coast beaches,
the shape of shells carved

by the singular focus of the sea.
He pays attention to all of it—
the dazzle of daffodil, 
the modulation of melody,
the whisper of willows in wind.

What right have I 
to lay claim 
on any part of his spirit?
What right have I 
to harness the wind?

 —Carla Jeanne