Hope

One curled foot: first step on a cold wooden floor--
a startled intake of breath,
silver-dollar eyes frightened and pleading,
arms reaching out--
searching--
just beyond your fingers.

Plodding on wishfully-winged heels I
totter, tiny toes carrying future
ages.

Hesitantly lifting the
next step from the ground,
I search for something solid;
my foot comes down.

Again, step again. Foot comes down.
Relief and triumph become
color in my cheeks, lights in my eyes.

Steadier now, confident now
I plant my whole foot down;
shooting tiny roots of promise
beneath the ground;
I wave my arms spiritedly--exultant
at the footing I've found.

Yet no matter where, or how firm,
or how many steps may land...
I hope you'll be there to hold my hand.