365 Poems/83 My Son At Four (Rough First Draft)
My Son At Four
You carefully pass me
your little collection of mushrooms.
They’re sleeping you say.
I hold them, your eyes are wide.
I turn slowly, as if the slightest jolt
might bruise their little white caps,
and stout stems.
You pull flat pebbles
out of your trouser pockets,
and explain they need to be soaked
in water and salt overnight, before
we can paint them with red dragons,
and black runes that spell out your name.
I don’t argue.
You know what you’re doing.
I’m slowly getting a sense
of immense things.
I imagine creatures follow you
in the woods, like you will always
know the right way.
My little born leader,
the landscape blooms,
as if your presence brings about
nothing but good changes,
or maybe it’s because I notice things
on a higher level, now you are here.
Things like my breath.
You tell me that I can let it go,
but then I need to catch it again.
You climb on a chair and your head
is just below my shoulder. You say
I need to get in love with myself,
as we gently cook the mushrooms
in a shallow pool of oil and garlic,
over a small, gentle ring of flames.