The Apple We Just Hold, Not Own

A little hand, so tender and cute,

Comes to our world, a sacred call.

Not ours to own, not ours to keep,

But a gift of love, gentle and deep.

Each child is different, strong, and true,

With dreams and skills known to few.

Not all can shine the same bright way,

But each brings light into our day.

We often hope for fame and name,

Through their success, we seek our flame.

But children grow in their own time,

Each with a path, a peak to climb.

They’re not our things, not made for show,

Like seeds from which new trees may grow.

We cannot judge, we must not bind,

Let them be free in heart and mind.

To think they’ll pay us back someday,

Is not the kindest, loving way.

They owe us nothing, not a part,

We gave them life, now give your heart.

Be thankful for the names you hear,

"Amma", "Appa"; so sweet, so dear.

Many wait and still don’t find,

That little voice, so soft and kind.

Just love them well and guide them right,

Through darkest days and softest light.

Don’t push, don’t pull, don’t tie them down,

Just help them rise, not wear your crown.

The ones we call our son, our daughter,

Are gems entrusted by life's charter.

Not ours to claim, nor wealth to store,

But hopes of humankind, and more.

To nourish, teach, and help them grow,

With timely care, as rivers flow—

In health, in thought, in dreams they weave,

A world more just than we believe.

This is the gift, the highest role

To care, to lift, to shape a soul.

You can merely count the seeds in an apple,

Not the trees and apples hidden in one seed.

Poetic Reflections of a Crazy Soul