Green Light

I reach for my daughters' hands

at the crosswalk.

Their miniature fingers orbit mine

in concentric circles,

landing with the force of a neutron star.

"Look, Papa," the youngest says,

"Our hands are hugging!"

You might not be drawn into her gravitational pull.

Her blood does not flow from your blood.

But, perhaps you have a child

or held the future in your palm

and felt the sting of her breaking away

before you reach the safety of the sidewalk.

Traffic rushes headlong like a meteor shower,

awakening the acute vulnerability

to which you are eternally enjoined.

These are your co-creations,

and you are bound to them

like atoms in a molecular waltz,

like light waves captured in the event horizon,

like comets on a collision course,

like galaxies hurling toward

the void.