If your child is a bowling ball thrown down a lane you are the faulty bumpers, merely guiding the game You’re not the bowler who decided the direction they threw or the scoring machine that ensures it’s played fair and true

If you birthed a hiker, destined for the hills you are not the trail, but a map, sparsely filled You’re a broken compass in a world with many souths and norths which are harder to come about

If you’re creating a painting, you are the brush who may believe their power is just not enough; whose colors are defined by your shifting seasons or the canvas of your own, for no particular reason

You are only the bumpers who for a little while will guide their wandering roll

You are only the map who though wrinkled and wet will save them from a cliff or two

You are only the brush who while feeling you aren’t enough flows paint constantly from their bristles

And your child is a ball who can roll on their own

Your child is a hiker who will discover themselves as they go

Your child is a painting still fragile and wet

who may one day have a painting of their own