• Where a child a year or two old is forced he sits and cries
    his wails bring glances of scorn from the passerby
    and impatient pleads of demand from his mother as she
    desperately looks to see if anyone else sees her
    pitiful attempt to control.
    And the cooperation is not there and his
    face is screwed up and ugly as he cries
    louder and people try not to stare.

    Yet later he smiles and grins while
    his mother ignores his tugging pull to
    her hand and his point to something
    unknown. But if only we take time to notice
    what it is, too often it would bring the same smile
    to us, if we see through this child's eyes.
    Because only this boy, just a small poem, can point it out from
    the hectic ways of life.