Christmas, my boy.

I look at the face

of my six-year old son

and I’m overcome

by the saddest dichotomy…

I will not say

exactly what…

but the notion

that so much joy

and potential despair

lie within one tiny soul

drives me deep into melancholy;

safe passage,

I ask,

of the fates

when these thoughts mount

like so many thieves

looking to rob me

of my foundation.

I am not a productive soul,

but this beautiful boy

is my masterwork,

and i cannot contemplate

any path forward

wherein he does not

exceed me.

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Not so daft

I have been silent

but still I speak.

My creativity dampened,

though flourishing

in flame.

I’ve been invisible

in plain sight.

Doing nothing,

and busy still.

The river has altered course,

the old bed is dry,

but the rains

are coming.

Daddy is not in

It’s a chore…

and I try to do my best,

(thank god I love him).

The reward is often

a glance

at a precious photo

or a moment when

he says my name….

It doesn’t matter…

It makes the day

priceless.

These kids can only throttle us

with the rope we’ve given them…

this crazy helix of promise

that only bears fruit

if we don’t kill them

first.