Began writing this back at the end of March, through April, and have finally come back to tie it up. Don’t believe I’ve posted it before, but it is a long time for me to hold on to one of these!
Set in tantrum, the boy’s toe (nail picked) face
Purples and blubbers in dark recessed mess.
Points of view – misaligned with his mother’s –
Expressably held to are uncovered.
Little one, wrenched expressions earn no work
From carrying hearts; and though pity’s uncorked
In simple glass, all call for you in fear:
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my dear.”
Tut less at common birdsong, but listen,
Listen closer to what they’ve known and seen.
In pride there’s no learning, so be patient;
In patience we know our place, time, and length.
But the sun just risen has yet to light
Darkened hills, and – with roaming clouds in sight –
May wait some time before the boy can see
All you want to show him; put it simply.
Little one, never know man’s heart; it drowns
Disturbing the water around and owns
Unknowing suffering – it’s death down here.
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my fear.”