No sooner has that become this
Than it is transformed to that again.

Chris rarely listens outside,
He is too fascinated by the world.
I am trying to explain
the Metamorphoses in a way
that forces him to concentrate,
but the subtleties confuse him.
“I reach for that glove.
I wear it. It is a good fit,
It hugs but does not squeeze,
It warms but does not heat.”
He thinks I am delusional.
He looks at me, quizzically,
Then at the glove. I turn
Around, then back to him.
“Here, try this on, it is a
glove. It will fit you well,
It is soft but not weak,
It is plain but not dull.”
I remove one of his mittens
And slide his hand into the glove.
It does not fit him. It is far too large.
I try on his mitten and move us along,
But my fingers get cold. I turn back to him,
“Would you like me to take that glove back, Chrat?”
He looks bewildered. He holds out his hand,
Then his eyes start to sparkle, and, “Chris!” he squeals.
I kneel down, kissing his shivering cheek,
Returning his mitten, I father a smile
His eyes burst with colour, an opaline shine,
And we move along, his hand small in mine.