Rushing river of days,
Cradle every parent's child in your waters.

We launch our babies in fragile baskets,
Moses multiplied by millions, released from muddy shores,
through no generosity or fearlessness of ours,
despite our instincts.
We squint to see around your bends, as our own hearts are carried away.
We throw small sticks to float behind the baskets, our prayers.

My child loves her body. She finds shameless joy
in each of her parts, which she knows
by touch, by name: elbow, eyebrow. Nothing escapes her interest.
She has an endless stream of kisses for the cut on her own foot.
May love of flesh, of body, be honored in your days.

Despite clumsy toddlerhood, my daughter has tender love for the world.
She wants to drink rainwater from puddles. She roars at thunder.
She pats our faces, or the cat's, chanting under her breath, "pat, pat, pat."
May tender care for life be honored in your days.

My daughter's favorite word is NO! But NO! and YES! alike
are uttered with joy, a song, or with defiance; an occasional kick.
She expects to be listened to. She screams when we force medicine
or when her other wishes are overruled by our larger bodies.
May the desires of the small and vulnerable be honored in your days.

My daughter sees her own beauty in the mirror of every moment.
She has no idea yet that someone else's funhouse could distort her.
May she ever see, reflected back to her, the beauty of female power,
Asian eyes, short stocky legs, a family with two Moms.
May the beauty of life's diversity be honored in your days.

New Millennium, rushing river of days,
I acknowledge your inevitable claim
on this, the most sacred gift ever entrusted to me.
All over the globe, mothers, fathers, other adults,
do the same, each surrendering to your currents.
Please cradle each child gently and deeply in your days.
May we cradle each other gently and deeply in our days.