As yet
you see my love
as an unlanguaged blur.
You find its lines
only in the shape of my face,
its warmth in my palms.
Some day I will try to tell you
how big it was,
the holding in the night,
the patient waiting
for the cries to subside.
My parents did the same.
It is impossible
to fully comprehend
the scale of love
before we know we are
loved
at all.
For me,
I deceive myself
into the idea that I know enough
to manage my own humanness.
Really, even the smallest corners
of what I cannot see
dwarf the crannies of my mind.
In the niche nooks of knowledge,
some days I can begin
to see myself in my son:
the fury over things
that do not last,
the joy over things
that are insignificant
but are made magnificent
by that same joy.
And on those days
I sense the presence,
vague,
unworded -
but constant,
known -
wishing me into growth,
loving me in
to life.
I love you, Wesley.