The garden was leviathan no doubt
when seen through your baby lizard eyes,
with leaves the length of galleons afloat
in the jacuzzi, a sea by its size.
You chose to take sudden soundless flight
into the humid draw of depths too deep,
all one-plus inches of you, in breathless night
and silent as a mote, slipped into sleep.
With giant hands I lift your minute self—
a whisp of life no bigger than a pin—
and place your question mark upon the shelf,
all sixteen padded toes—and I imagine
the rhythm of the ancient earth that beat
within, hands and feet and bones fine as lace,
the barest threads of being so complete.
Your limpid eyes and small believing face
are yogi calm, no doubting where you fit
or worries of self-worth. Now beyond sleep
your heart and lungs and tiny closed up lips
sealed shut to guard the secrets you will keep.