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A poem, a little boy and freshly fallen snow.
At three years old and heartsick for his father,
Josh has all the musings of a poet. In my arms,
convulsing. Refusing all the yellow-laughing
toboggans gliding past. Life pouring in through
his eyes and out again with the steady flow of
fear. My palm on his red cheek and his tiny lungs
pounding through thick coats. Nothing helps.
Until I sing; soft lullabyes, warm breath against
his ear and clear blue skies that float Josh far
away from mournful absence in a wordless poem.
That's where he belongs.

This one, notsomuch lying flat on a page,
but standing upright in performance. A chorus
of voices speaking it aloud with full presence
and fortissimo, equal to the way a writer hopes
to live, one day mapping all his stars with words
(with all the ones he still has yet to learn).

This winter morning is a poem.
Top-heavy boughs that slowly sway.
Snow-laden spruce and pine that fling
blue shadows across his face. The face
of a writer weighted down until released
by serenatas. And mesmerized by momentary
gusts of ideas that sprinkle first-aide-enchantment
through the cold-crystal air. So many
artistic possibilities housed within the
endless-aching heart of someone
left behind. That he might finally
find the quietude in t/his
impending force.