For My Son Noah Ten Years Old

Nigh and day arrive and day after day goes by

And what is old remains old and what is young remains young and grows old.

The lumber pile does not grow younger nor the two-by-fours lose their darkness

but the old tree goes on the barn stands without help so many years;

the advocate of darkness and night is not lost.

The horse steps up swings on one leg turns its body

the chicken flapping claws onto the roost its wings whelping and walloping

but what is primitive is not to be shot out into the night and the dark.

And slowly the kind man comes closer loses his rage sits down at table.

So I am proud only of those days that pass in undivided tenderness

when you sit drawing or making books stapled with messages to the world

or coloring a man with fire coming out of his hair.

Or we sit at a table with small tea carefully poured.

So we pass our time together calm and delighted.