The sound of the effort to escape is also the sound of the effort to know where you are now.
I wish people would raise their children as if they were miracles. Superheroes. Creators. Because those kids. . .they’d revere the power of the pen.
How can I capture such a man in verse?
You crafted me in blood and muscles and imagination,
mashed-up bits and
leftover corners of my ancestry
Heron, your indifference, your beak to the sky, your unmoving, ruffled stance on the crumbling seawall, your staunch you-ness, it’s so easy for you. To be you. You through and through.
We are earthbound for a reason:
to experience the holiness of creation.
You want to wrap yourself in it all, bless it all, for the mercy of living where your worst worries are of the most mundane sort.
Your birth anointed me with the pure oil of fatherhood, crowned me with a diadem jeweled with responsibilities and burnished with tears.