We were all ill prepared, a slim stem
rootless in firm ground; the door
opens on life without a sound, leaving debris
to piece together unknown realms.
Newborn, he grabbed for a flower,
and we as parents wonder in what ways
The petals will tear; as he grazes through days
what will he say is the story of his tower?
Transitions are doors to gated daffodil beds,
where foreseers, sprouting in Eden’s den, say
“Welcome to a piece of life!” Whose aim
is to discover sense — a drive to ascend.