Saturday, August 11, 2012

bittersweet

like a weed with prickly edges
and soft leaves
bump-browsing through a tender carrot patch
I adore my son

I adore his freckles
those long eyelashes
his delicate, purpose-filled fingers
those shoulders that are starting to get a bit wider

the hair he wants styled differently, but doesn't care if it sticks up too much in back
I adore that, too.

I let weeds grow in my garden
because they have something to say
something to contribute

they are unruly, yes
but there is always something
always something
that I will adore:
a bit of delicate, curling vine
a little purple flower
an edible portion
the tallness

he sets himself apart these days
my weed-son

he walks a bit further ahead
or a lags a bit behind
not sure, himself, why he does this
he says yeah when I say nay
nay and yeah

we try to get each other to understand
listen to me, he says
listen to me, I say

we got up early one misty morning
and went on a walk 
on a lonely beach
and he held my hand
he hugged me
he grabbed my arm and looked up at me
like he did until the age of 8, always, ever

I grasped him hard
and kissed his eyes
and just in front of his ears
and the top of his head

we both said how much
how much
how much

we are learning to let each other be
and finding out how he wants to love me now
I, I am ever and always
loving
-how much how much how much-
my weed-son

1 comment:

Ma said...

I Love this.