Walking,
you are flint-edged,
mastiff-shouldered.
Your feet scrape yielding carpet
before suddenly, continually
bearing full weight.

Running,
you are lighter, enduring,
but you still take the road
by force, challenge
the wind.

You might have torn
your way into life:
like roots
cracking concrete,
forcing doors.

But when you hold
snowflake daughters
your hands are
the gentle air of
fragile wings,

you slip
your covert chrysalis
and are once more
the butterfly father,
at home in this breath
of benevolence,

borrowing life from
their breathing.

[for Stuart MacLeod]