It used to be just snuggling for its own sake,
but here on a bench by Duntulm Castle,
where the sea blows its chill wind inward,
my daughter snuggles in,
tells me she is cold and I am warm.
I squeeze her tight,
my right hand rubs up and down her arm
as if to build a fire.
In the distance, the Hebrides rise
through the sea mist as though
marking the border of the world.
My daughter puts her head on my belly
and, remembering our conversation from breakfast,
says with a generosity I treasure daily,
"If you lost weight, Daddy,
you wouldn't be as warm as you are."
How we define the borders of our lives,
how blessed are their mysteries.
I look out at the blue mountains,
feel the salt wind against my face,
and - not quite daring prayer -
simply wish to hold my daughter
in this sweet embrace, forever.
Michael S. Glaser