Letter to Elliot

My son wanted to know
if life has meaning.
I said, “Life has the meaning
that you give it.”

But how could he know
what it felt like
the first time I kissed his mother
over a pint of cherry ice cream
or the clap of thunder
that accompanied his entrance
into the world.
The way he looked at us
with eyes
that were but minutes old
and yet seemed more ancient
than words.

He’s not yet felt
the internal flight
of a friend with a guitar
or the power of a current
that sweeps a canoe
along the churning brown waters
of the Amazon
and the thrill of jumping out to swim
with piranhas and pink dolphins.

I wonder if
in some hidden corner of his mind
he’s contracting his muscles
already preparing for pain
at age 10.
If he feels childhood slipping away,
cynicism rushing in
to fill the hole that was once
Santa and pets that spoke to you
at midnight.

Hang on, I want to say,
there’s more to it than that.
The sun is just coming up
and its promising pastels
softer than your mother’s lips
are now brightening
the entire horizon.

Canyon Song II

You should be listening for
flocks of flamingos
midnight owls
or the song of a canyon wren.
Chasing the flames of a fire
before they become
a mere memory of light.

Can you hold those flames in your pocket?
That is why
you cannot wait.

Canyon Song I

Sleeping on sand
with the echoes of the water
the sigh of the wind
watching clouds drift across
a sliver of deepening blue:
sadness spun from the air
and blown into night.

A tear holds on
to the lip of the waterfall
the plunge –
return to the river
and float from sight.