No doubt

how I can be amazed by family

and how we grow apart day by day.

But now we’re together like a pause between breaths, like branches

touching in a breeze and thrilled to meet,

but then again reaching away, longing

for light. And how I carry an old fruitless cargo;

a seed of me wrapped in bark, called ‘experience’.

How can I affirm to know the seed

of anything? Because no rock is ultimately

stable, no term the right term. But words

and ego bubble out of me, congealed,

not nascent, and un-alive; having no

claim to light this moment by living soft

like butter; not hard like a knife.

How metaphors fail! No words can catch

a fire, hiss of inner anger hours

after my ‘teaching’ occurs. Insensitive,

ignoring a poetry of parenthood,

like trust looking out through running windows

onto self. And now my anger burns

and how a real connection quells, no doubt.