by George Such

Cradling my granddaughter
against my chest,
my finger feels the fontanelle
on top of her head,
the soft space between the bone,
destined to close –
for everyone needs protection.
But now I can
almost sense the filaments
on the edge
of her mind, no wall between
my finger
and her consciousness, as if I
could write
a message in her soul, a poem
she could carry.
She wrinkles her forehead
and looks up at me,
her eyes vast hands that touch
my face
and this permeable place,
this room
where sunbeams reach through
the window.