Feet wet with walking in the morning grass
I stop at the stream and you carry on
Water lapping against your 5-year-old knees.
In years past I plunged straight in,
But that innocence is gone: now from the shore
I offer advice; permission; limitations.
Like scrubbing out a stubborn stain, your joy
Splashes in the cold pools and waterfalls,
A world of possibility, free pebbles underfoot
With no sins. Uneasily, it overtakes me:
First stooping down to pluck a tossing rock
Then gingerly stepping out on mossy stones.
I plant my sneakers in slippery places;
Shift my weight; switch feet, then spring!
—Expecting worse, as I too often do,
The foothold stays: delivers me with grace
To the far shore. Then I am both here and not:
Within and past this moment of your joy,
Double-exposed to childhood and malaise.
You hold a rock up over your head and
Bring it down with a tremendous splash,
Displacing water and my gravitas.
Your face beams with pride and abandon:
My soul is with you, barefoot boy in a frigid stream
Despite my stubborn body on the shore.
May 2019
No comments:
Post a Comment