The man has trailed his daughter and son
to the roses and hoisted each in turn 

to sniff a red one, more bud than bloom,
like a drop at the tap, taut with itself.

The children’s slim bodies thrum
with feeling—they chatter, giggle,

dance in orbit; the boy runs, 
the way dogs race around 

their master, exhilaration bodied 
out. Now he pleads for Hide

and Seek among the boxwood; his father
sits on a bench to count as the kids

scatter—Ready or not—the boy
wriggles behind a hedge to hide,

as his father starts the searching game:
Where can they be? In the roses?  Noooo.

The boy clamps his hand over his mouth, 
his knee jiggles; shoulders twitch.

Then he blows his cover, arms 
wide, ready for reassurance,

the test of love—the proof of self—
become the test of being seen.

He crows shrilly, Here I am.
But where’s his father?  Down a path 

still crooning, Wheeere can they beee?
The boy repeats, softly, Here;

stops, stands.  Then he howls 
for his father, runs to find him,

the game reversed.  What comfort
his father's hug so quickly recovered?

Look, the man kneels beside
his sobbing son to point out

swallows gliding in low swoops
for insect life above the garden.  

Child, to find yourself, first 
lose yourself in something else.