Wriggling to Consciousness

Four months now
he has squirmed and wriggled.
Arms flailing spasmodically—
legs kicking randomly—
torso twisting this way and that.

From the beginning
he has been devoted—
determined to expend
vast amounts of energy
in this essential commotion.

Now his wild investment
is beginning to pay off.
Unrelenting mistakes are
surely leading toward
creeping mastery.
When the fuzzy bear
dangles in front of him,
one small chubby hand
or two wavers its
way in the desired direction
and tiny fingers clutch
acrylic fuzz bringing it
at last to the mouth
for satisfying inspection.

With no conscious plan,
he surely weaves himself
into worldly consciousness.

Perhaps we are all
like this—flailing away
with pretense of purpose,
but fundamentally ignorant
of final destinations.

How providential that
our ongoing wriggling failures
occasionally lead the chubby hands
of our soul to find their way
to some fuzzy love
that surrounds us—
and that we may
even innocently receive
it into our hearts
and, for a moment,
be satisfied.