Listen: his infant laughter is brighter than the Summer,
even though the nights have shortened.
Someday he will speak his first word
(as far as we can tell).
As far as we can tell,
he already has.
I do not know what he knows:
I have no idea how much territory his mind has explored.
I do not know what he knows:
he has already covered ground beyond my borders,
frontiers I have not.
I have not
accepted the fact that my inability to comprehend his gaze
is a remark on his comprehension.
To become like a child:
every day a discovery,
every blink an uncovering,
every touch assumed love in it.
To become like a child:
to break the flood of our disenchantment
on the rock of clean reality
(untarnished innocence).
All was meant to remain in a realm we all revoked.
To be a parent:
to watch this come, to watch it go,
to witness a clearing of the smoke
or a smoking of the clear.
His eyes will hold envy before he ever sees it.
His heart will hurt and be hurt
before he ever knows what hit him.
To be a parent:
Front row to this Autumn Reenactment, Fall
Again, renovated wrecking ball,
nothing new under sun or cloudy skies.
I will wait until he is old enough to crawl
out from under the rubble.
He will have his eyes opened,
his youth undisguised,
then - if all goes well
if I have something to say,
as far as I can tell -
he will open his own eyes.
