Logan, 14 months, stands beside his mother on her knees.
Swishing with her hand, she tests the water in the tub,
fiddles with the faucet and finds the perfect mix.
Leaning in, belly pressed to porcelain,
amazed by water gushing from the spout,
Logan slaps above the waterline in pure delight.
His perfect fingers break the silver skin,
dipping deeper in, he sees his submerged arms
refracted to the right.
He laughs and makes a fist
discovering that water can’t be squished
but it will bend the light
How little does he comprehend
of optical illusions
of volume that his hand displaces
of pipes and drains
of stains dissolved in aqueous solution
of rites of absolution
of faith in God’s reunion when we rise
of immersion in the meanings water comes to symbolize?
My daughter lifts him up and in.
He splashes, kicks, his eyes go wide.
He has no words to analyze or name
this wondrous stuff.
His laughter is enough.
Standing in the open door,
I watch and realize
I’d give the world to see the water gush
through Logan’s eyes.
About the Poet: Kevin Shyne is a lifelong writer whose work once appeared frequently in corporate annual reports and employee newsletters. Turning to poetry in his retirement, Kevin has had poems published in Clementine Unbound, The Lyric, Poetry Porch and Blue Heron Review. Kevin lives in a small town in the corn-and-soybean heart of the Midwest, where, along with a group of fellow poets, he helped organize the first-ever poetry event for the Prairie Arts Council in Princeton, Illinois.
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