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,
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,
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 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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