Annoyed by the tick of a clock I cannot see,
I hear a countdown in my head
Of decisions lost in time and age.
My toes crackle and pop as I wiggle,
Trying to restore circulation and warm them.
It would be easy to despair
Over the days I was given to waste,
But a little boy calls to me from another room,
A young child with everything to live for,
Precious little memory,
And too few moments left to spend.
It is desperately unfair to him
That his presence teaches joy
In lessons he will never get to know.
No dreams of president or astronaut,
Nor baseball player, racing cars.
For him, the clock in his head
Is already sounding alarms and ringing bells,
But there is no fireman to save him from the din.
There is only love and toys,
And a seed that keeps growing larger
In luxuriously fertile ground.
for Zailin
ReplyDeleteoh wow. i like this one, robin. you downplay your ability to paint with words and images when you tell me about your writing. you seem to have engrained that into your personality somehow. but, hypercritical humility aside, at least i can appreciate your art.
ReplyDeleteRe-read it and thought the poem is stronger than the title. Something that connects the "I" with the boy, maybe. Not necessarily in a direct way though. Gonna read it to Mike now.
ReplyDeletemikey likes it.
ReplyDeleteperhaps we pendragons (and friends) could put together a book for zailin. just a thought.
ReplyDeleteI'd like that.
ReplyDelete