When I hold your little hand in mine
as we go on our walk,
you, little girl, little granddaughter,
who can so quickly turn vigilant, frightened,
at a loud noise, say, or a harsh word,
or smile in quiet joy at a proffered wildflower,
are my bulwark against mortality:
yet so it is, the world’s most fragile things
protect us even from the edge of doom,
prevent the flood of time though we leave soon.