For My Son

December 15th was my son's 38th birthday. He's working through many trails in his life right now, and there seems to be very little I can do, but if you are reading this son, know I love you and think about you every day, and that I know you have what no one else can give you to win your battles. Someday things that seem impossible now will all be alright, one way or the other, so whatever's going down, try to laugh to keep from crying. This last year's  poem (slightly revised) isn't much of a birthday present, but I hope you can read between the lines.

For My Son

When he was a baby

he knew the language of birds

in his carrier under the trees.

looking up with blurry eyes,

waving fat hands

And speaking.

When he was a child
he wrote poetry
drew us the shine
of surreal suns;

he laughed 
into hollow tubes,

dressed in paper armor,

coughed and cried

and trusted

without speaking.

But somehow he wandered

away

into the tangled forest of his life

love a treacherous chase
full of hunters,

wary of pursuit,

under the falling arrows,

the ones I fired into the air

that hit and made him bleed,

the ones I never fired,

running far and fast

away where I

can’t follow.

In that forest

may he be safe

from hunting at last

from me, from himself.
May the light of his laughter
burn bright.

May he still be

speaking to birds

and finally

hear them answer.

October 2010

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