Monday, September 26, 2011

Making and Singing At Age Four


                                             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:
                                             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."


                                              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.


                                                            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.

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