Be quick with the details. They run fast like small children.
Seize them by the sleeve, hook their hood, grip a hand.
Grab hold of what you can, just firm enough to keep
that wriggling body from slipping into the deep.
Else they’ll shrink from their clothes and leave you a limp phrase,
flapping in the wind of what you lived but cannot say
However you can, pause the parade
of tiny feet that pitter-patter, perpetually, across the day.
Make them stand for the camera, and give you all sides:
The angle of their jawbone, the golden iris in their eyes
Or else you’ll be alone with a slippery soul
That begs for embodiment, without flesh to mold
You’ll be following a phantom to the ends of your page
Wrestling a wind--what it moves, still untold.
Be slow with the details. They're skittish like birds.
Make camp on a bench, and get out your binoculars.
Be patient with the details, don't forget you are them;
Details are the homeland, your story's Bethlehem.