Poem For My Son
My young son
Is always in my son;
the sleepy boy, the super-correct teenager,
the inventive seven-year-old.
Always in my eye, his questioning gaze or
trusting lean, hand in my hand.
His the language of clarity
a straight line of the heart.
His shoes, always worn at the toes,
touched new places, old places, many hearts.
Wish: for the reach of the child to be
always within reach, when nothing else is.
When everything is.
For the rush of grace when life is tight,
the smoothness of voice when pressed
for astonishment in every moment.
There is a saying,
where the heart and the soul being
well traveled, tempered to lightness, honed to the hour
makes the Man. Without the boy.
And I say
Let the Man be the Boy
Let the Boy Be.
That’s where the son rises.