Roots

Their little hands pulling me towards responsibility,
not with force,
but with trust.

A tug at the sleeve,
a voice in the night,
small shoes waiting by the door.

And suddenly a man understands
that love is not a feeling that visits —
it is weight carried willingly.

The world still calls him elsewhere:
towards freedom without anchors,
towards silence, towards self.

But those small hands
keep leading him back
to what matters.
Not chains.Roots.
And without roots you die.

I look towards the heavens 
And with grattitude I cry.