Monday, November 7, 2011


It came to my notice the other day,
while looking at some old photographs
of you playing in the dirt, laughing,
holding your face up to the camera
with an impudent innocence piercing
the air with its clarity, that a man
fortunate enough to have a son engaged
with life, one who walks a path clear-eyed
(I see you running at the surf, when you
had overcome your fear, with a sharp
thrust of relish) has been given one of the simpler gifts:
a clear note played with a bow, and sustained daily.
Some would call it love. I found myself
thinking about the careful hands of one
working with wood, who finds in the grain and warp
of the tree the shape of the thing expressed:
the actual heft of an object carved.

I wanted to hold you then. Wanted what since ancient times
the sprinkling of water might signify: blessing, grace, arrival.

I thought all this while sitting on a noisy train of skylarking teenagers
and hearing the bass note of what, too, was their need for love.

Since I walked from that hospital by the river,
every moving sinew takes me home.

24 October 2011

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