Love’s Body

I felt the opposition
The tension in their shoulders
And expectation in their eyes
As the youth of their love wondered why
Why the stand-off?
For the air is ambient and new today
It is still early
In my hand, find this toy….
Heed this!
There need be no eleventh-hour
Love’s body begged

Some Son

He’s the start of a poem and the end of it too. He achieves types of feats we aspire to do.

Watch him at work -he’s perfecting the task. “Has he rocket for brain?” you will find yourself ask.

Inclined, while he plays, to spot where atoms land. Then when I look close, I see slingshots, not hands.

As gifted with talent beyond any you’d see. He’s a capital G. He’s a capital T.


As They fall
Or try to jump
Some refusing, debating gravity
Some letting go easily
I watch
I come close
I attend
To their this season’s stamina
To their next year’s rebirth
Early arrival
On time, or delayed
Let the Weather so decide


You were a sweet boy

Tall as the wheat

And I the rose bush

Rambling skyward

Why you drew near, I’d not wondered

Seasons later

Come, I summon,

Skyward again

Back to that hill and together

Standing e’er so near

I’d interrogate you

With a whisper, “My thorns, or my hue?”


I can do this too, hold on

When the weather turns

Watch in awe


In wonderment, listen

At the end of the frayed, weeknight rope

I can remember the first days of Spring

Out of sheer will

I will recreate

The green

The youth

The primrose, if I choose