Scribe
Scribe
2014
Essentials
I was winging in like an eagle;
your call for a son, strong
Landed without a parachute—
the wind of your desire
floating me down
for a soft landing,
as earthbound drops go.
Years we’ve moved in and out
of each other’s orbit
The seas of our propinquity
placid or stormy,
as the seasons of our lives
touched roughly or gently.
May this season be tender,
the most tender of all—
this most precious season
be the most honoring,
the most deeply felt in love,
surpassing all things small between us.
The largeness of devotion
as son and mother too immense
in things that matter
for all else to matter at all.
Copyright © 2014 Carl Hitchens
Thursday, December 18, 2014