Sometimes

It is a week to say goodbye

what I don't understand
outweighs all the chips
I stacked on the side
of what I thought connected us

the story I drafted, played at,
half-way believed, was just
a wish for who I hoped you were

to whom I'm
saying goodbye
I still can't say

Sons

I sit in reluctant sun today
on a porch weathered
by greens of every color
at the house we lived in
before we ever thought of you,
our limbs like tendrils
of the wisteria that
caress the pergola

in her house, we talk of you;
your quiet sweetness
like her patient chickadees,
your ferocious determination
as you push into the world
insistent as finches rushing

I've watched you walk away;
your shoulders sharp as
the corners of a square,
strong enough to bear any load,
emotional or otherwise

the shape of your nose
a shadow of our ancients,
your deep eyes lit from within,
the remnant of another fire

I praise the DNA
that runs through you,
a singular stream forged
through the debris of
a thousand lives

I pay homage to the men
who've gone before you;
those boys and men
we've loved, would open
arms and legs for, again