Monologue for Matthew
How deep to plant, how far apart,
how long before maturity
the backs of the seed packs tell me.
And you there in the shade,
watching me as I plant
and pretending with your toy spade
to till the floor of your playpen,
are another seed I've sown.
Ninety days to the harvest,
says the card from the Better Boys
--three months they can be trusted
to grow and become what they will,
tomato plants having never been known
to run into a busy street,
or climb out onto the roof.
Could you be rooted and fenced, my boy,
for a decade, say, or two?
Who can tell how far apart
you and I must grow?
And does it depend on how deep
we can make love go?
The trouble is, a son
doesn't come with any instructions,
not so much as a half sheet
of fundamental directions,
the kind one always gets
with even a simple toy.
No, you came emptyhanded
into the lives of your parents,
counting on a few seasons
to have taught them a thing or two.
Your mother calls me a skeptic,
and most of the time it's true,
but right now, on my knees in the garden
seems like a good time for praying.
For Matthew at Two Months
That I'm waking early,
impatient to be rising,
is a very good sign
That I'm no longer wishing
I could sleep all morning
is a good sign indeed
I like to think it signals
the hoped for return
of my long absent spirit
I can only conclude
that you found it wandering
lost on the other side
and, taking pity, thought
to fetch it home when you came
After David's Nap
What a giant grinning fool
I must appear to him,
delighting in every little sign
of his sweet evolution.
No wonder his wonderful eyes
ignore the toys I offer
and seek instead the dayshine
I rescue from his curtains.
Like me, the sun's been waiting
out in the cold for hours
to light upon his face.
And suddenly I think I know
what it is he is seeing.
Could it be the muffled face
of his life -- his life! -- to come
peeking in at the frosted window?