Time, a poem.

Time

 

I watch the last winter Junkos

gather at the feeder my son filled before he left.

Soon they will fly north for summer.

On the new house construction behind us

the roofers walk the hips and ridges

without safety ropes, nail-gunning shingles

without incident. When the roof was white with frost

they tied themselves down, just to be sure.

I might have done the same, tied him

to me with advice or questions, my preference

for his BB gun, his childhood. But it was well

past time for Spring, and I imagine

he already sensed the enticing green

fatigue of 05:00 hours, heard new voices

promise vital things. My voice

like friendly fire, something

best kept in the back of his mind.

 

LAE2017

Release

Release

Nothing prepares you

in the beginning when he wails into night’s quiet hours

and maybe it’s not about him needing you that much

more about him being mad

to be pushed from warm nest into cold world.

Still you do what you can, breast to soft mouth, arms wrapped

tight against everything. You let go in small ways

like a bandage being torn slowly from scab over wound

you feel how he forgets to look back

that first time at the playground, how he smiles wider

with his friends. It’s what you do. Nobody tells you exactly how.

You order each memory in a scrapbook, smooth down his life captured

in a thousand framed stories

and wonder how seventeen years can lay out so well on the page

while inside

you are ragged edged, coming unglued.

 

Considering the upcoming High School Graduation of my son, Malcolm James Evans, whom I am especially fond of.

SDG, Lesley-Anne