Song of Tomorrow

Now I begin with the hands of my two sons,
clutching the small predictions for their lives with what

every father knows, each digit soft and already

damaged—I cannot save them—these two bright

chances at my side, burning blonde in the sun,
singing at every sweetness, berries, ripe, or not,

torn from the bush; they hardly whimper
for my help, knowing, believing, I will give

them whatever I have, whatever I can acquire, and so,
what I mean to acquire is a kindness beyond me, my means 

a willingness to dig myself in, to surround myself
with to-do-lust, and do the most happening things

with our time; I am a man trying
to hold water in cupped hands—I will fail

to hold it; I will fail, but I will know
what joy there is in feeling it pass.

 

first appeared in The Rattling Wall & Included in House of Water