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.