the curve of his neck manly even in childhood
i look at my son a rosebud that didn’t unfurl plucked too soon perhaps a bud which cannot blossom one who is in this world but not of this world one who could not enter freely and happily into his life one who does not hear the wind but feels it buffeting his body roughly never gently as we who hear it whispering on summer evenings my son will never be able to love a woman as other men may do he will never hold his child in his arms and know the wonder of creation my son will forever be a rose bud tightly furled layer upon layer of frustration unable to expand his mind to experience our world as we have done
evening rain stepping stones slowly darken
i look at my son a rosebud that didn’t unfurl plucked too soon perhaps a bud which cannot blossom one who is in this world but not of this world one who could not enter freely and happily into his life one who does not hear the wind but feels it buffeting his body roughly never gently as we who hear it whispering on summer evenings my son will never be able to love a woman as other men may do he will never hold his child in his arms and know the wonder of creation my son will forever be a rose bud tightly furled layer upon layer of frustration unable to expand his mind to experience our world as we have done
evening rain stepping stones slowly darken
by Janice M. Bostok
Murwillumbah, New South Wales, Australia
first published in Stepping Stones, 2007
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