No, not better. Just good.
I want to make things good for you.
Because I see you, and I know I'm right here,
I am home.
Wouldn't it be lucky if you found a home in me?
I could hand you my presents instead of having to hide them,
waiting for you to prick your finger or stub your toe on them.
But maybe this way will serve me my purpose.
I will mend your wounds as you unfold your treasures,
marveling, grateful, at their beauty, wondering where they came from.
I will sit with you as you breathe in the sky, thinking of who it must have been that left it,
so very sure you know. You will be wrong.
I will accept this,
and I will keep hiding your presents.
