My thoughts are teething.
Irritated wails
And soft hands flailing
And feet kicking wildly and whines,
A tiny tantrum
A hurricane of constant discomfort wrapped up in duck-printed cotton:
Need a distraction
A focus, some cooling comfort
For growing pains
For a growing mind.
Reach and pull and taste and repeat
Until something satisfactory settles
Insurgent itching
Fends off rebellious pain
That so often takes over
A world newly heir to wet darkness.
I can only use what I know:
Sadness still with training wheels
Happiness, thin as the tinkle of wind chimes
Anger without certainty
Loss without acceptance
And love with blinders,
More yearning and expectation and brief spark than tested trust
But no matter how flimsy the material,
How cheap, how breakable,
The little circle is soothing.
It numbs the ache of my growing ideas.