[Memory: like dew]

 

Memory: like dew

(of you   my son)

on spider’s silk,

on roses.

 

The leaving of sun

for moonlight

on the pond’s surface.

 

The still waters.

 

The stillness of my memory

drips

on you

for you  my son.

---

Fatherhood

 

break birds’ flight

to moss on stone

 

examine the simplicity of their makeup:

 

watch the water drip down the back;

 

look at the moss drink the dew;

 

wind blows through the thousand canyons

of its feathers

as easily as it does

through the green silk.

 

but the complexity in the Woven Child

brings you to divine (un)certainty.

 

How do feathers breed gasps of air?

How does moss anchor to stone?

 

---

CARSON SAWYER is a poet and short story writer living in Omaha, Nebraska. He has been published in Common Ground Review and is a gradate of the University of Iowa’s Young Writers’ Workshop.