On your birthday, Nate

February 1, 2016

You have started work for the day,
my boyo, my first born,
my heart of my heart,
my dig deep to discover that vein
of tenderness that runs through ache.

You were my first all of everything,
my big cat,
my padding slowly,
my carrier of on and on,
of what ought to be carried.

You were my ocean swell,
my open sky,
my scudding clouds,
my bird before the storm,
my distant thunder.

You were my night train,
my Boulder to Ann Arbor express
speeding ahead. You were my
afternoon delight, my exultation,
my languid day.

You were the fever in the night,
the baby in the chilling bath.
You were the first and loudest warning
that what we do has echoes
that I will never hear.

You were the clear challenge
to old men to make that
about them be that
about you, be
about that which comes next.

No matter that you are there
and I am here,
we share a life that is a fullness
in my heart, and all
that I will leave behind for you.

I reach out from here
to touch you there,
my love, my boy,
my great, big boy.

Love to Babies

Nathan Night Rain,

you were an infant with

apple cheeks and patience.

Julie Anna,

you were a witch baby,

wise with foreknowledge.

And Brendan Isaac,

you were king baby

with windmill arms and bicycle legs,

wailing your loud strong music.

As Isaac brought joy

to Abraham and Sarah,

with a handful of weight,

with the heat of new beginning,

with the scent of everything to come,

so have you brought

gift after gift after gift

of Nate asleep on my heart,

warm weight waxing,

innocent of his fierce protector;

of Julie at midnight recalled,

fresh weight needing nothing

but that which was freely given;

of yourself,

urgent and new;

all of you, gift after gift after gift

to a father stirred and grateful

that the elements combined as you.