Birth, Brook, Children, Courage, Fear of Death, First Born, Freedom, Gratitude, Happiness, Hope, Life, Love, Mothers, New Soul, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Son, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Strength, Yearning
Some, come into the world as old souls,
like they’ve been here a hundred times,
a bit weary, wise, or jaded, made cautious
by pain and an understanding of human hearts.
But not my son, whose eyes seem to see
the earth as if it were just created.
Yes, from first breath he was a wanderer,
like his father in his lust for the world,
possibilities stretched out before him,
no person a stranger, no place strange,
a modern day viking making his way
across an infinite, angry sea, with no map.
Unless, music be a map. Song after song,
his heart in waves of hard-plucked strings.
He sang loud, and I wondered how
he could pour himself out in front of a crowd.
I see him, even now, upon the ocean,
his wooden ship, the waves, the sails.