I
My small son's pencil going over his paper,
back and forth,
making a softly sanding sound,
lulling me into a child's realm
and God's kingdom:
comes over with his book marks
he has cut out:
he has cut out:
one is the shape of a wrist watch with all the numbers,
another a red rocket,
another a leaf with bright green and veins;
puts one in between the pages and closes my book.
"OK, now come play with me."
II
My small son wants to make the ocean this morning,
a paper ocean.
Now, his colors smear the royal-blue waves and orange-red sun
over the small, chocolate sailboat
with white crosses on slate-gray sails.
Now, the sound of crayons making a miniature,
softly waxing
roar of ocean:
a great crashing against the crooked, wooden planks
with no one on board.
III
Singing the owl's song,
who flew into my little son's room
and sat on the bedpost
to tell of what he loved
from the woods,
while his small self
deeper went
fast asleep against me
like all the soft wings
of dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment