Every time blond child is allowed in the front yard,
the wide yard, the wild world,
and ever since she has discovered how legs work,
and how wills work,
she makes a bee-line for the street, as fast as her little toddle can waddle.
She runs toward danger,
toward pain and tears,
laughing all the while because she still doesn’t know the peril,
the death in choosing that kind of unrestraint.
But unrestrained is not freedom.
She ought to trust that she is always safest in Father’s arms.