This is the first poem in my first book of poetry, "Touched By Its Rays."
To Ethan
It is my role, surely, ever has been,
To dry the tears, to say the pain will pass:
A little rain, just now, and sunshine, then.
The bump, that stubborn button, the lemonade
That never seemed to sell, the awful fever
Waylaying our vacation, the Bandaid
Appalling to pull: Your hero foretold
That, as these came, so they would go, secure
In hope you could not share, and ever bold
To beard the lion.
But, today, my son,
You do not cry. When you have loved and lost,
Possessing, knowing, ruling all—then none-
You weep, and weep in pain that's yours alone.
No seasoned glance assesses its depth
And fixes the compass on shores well-known.
My nostrums, packets of sagacity,
Reside like tired toys in some shuttered past.
In this pain you are a stranger to me.
Where is the infant's familiar distress,
The child's toppled pride crying for the kiss?
I might pose that life goes on. I could guess
A clear day may come to dry tears, and let
A laugh gust past the heart's rage, and love-
Not mine, not pills from that old cabinet-
Redress your soul's nakedness. Oh, may it be.
May you become the father to the child,
Though that be all, all that remains of me.
-- Walter Donway