Out of my hands

We release poems like living creatures, never knowing who they will touch deeply, or who they will undo completely

---

I called something gentle into the world,
and it rose from my hands,
already certain
it belonged to no one.

I stitched a quiet longing into it,
never believing it would rise
on its own authority.

They looked into it as into water,
each one seeing only themselves,
more brightly than they wished.

I thought I had written restraint,
a folded tenderness for morning hours,
but the creature stepped forward, unashamed.

It turned its small face toward me then,
calm in its purpose:
I gather the stray embers of emotion
and hand them back as flame.

They felt exposed before it.
They blamed me, though I, too,
felt the sting of its radiance.

And still, I hovered near it,
half wishing it would soften,
half longing to witness
what havoc tenderness could make.

It cannot be called back.

Even tenderness leaves its maker behind.

Now I watch it from a distance,
proud, guilty,
as one watches a child who will not obey.