When you are grown I will write you a poem
from an aging bird’s once clear-eyed view.
It will speak in sotto voce, earthy as loam
it will sing sweetly of no one but you.
Your first quake as you tore into the world
was all at once both searing pain and joy.
Heartbreak for new uncertainty unfurled,
adventure for a wet fisted, little boy.
Breath on my breath you raced straight and fast,
soft down quickly replaced by lion’s mane.
Tiny teeth pillows mark the fairie years past,
but freckles and my heart beat the same.
Holding on tight I squeeze you, stay small.
Deeply inhaling you, the sweaty outside.
Dozens or Hundreds of kisses for hurt and fall,
long since past, go where memories abide.
Standing tall, casting the long shadows of a man.
Look on the horizon of new life, new home.
Remind me again, this was always the plan.
A Mother’s opus, and too soon, a poem.