A poem by my friend, Josh Leland.  You can read more of his skilled poetry at his site.

In my living room there is a fan with three lights
And a small piece of porcelain hangs from a chain in the middle,
Swaying slightly, glossy blue and white.
I poke it with my finger, and under it we stand–
My son in my arms, head tilted back,
Eagerly reaching with delicate hands.
He cannot yet speak,
But he makes this particular noise when he sees
That dangling beauty, always so just out of reach;
He points and he smiles, with a hoarse sort of groaning,
A joyful wheezing mixed with parts mourning.
Tonight, I carried him into the backyard with me
And under the sky we stood,
And I could tell from his wide-eyed solemnity
That he knew somehow that the evening was good–
The cold, the stars, the hard, crunching ground,
The long stretching silence of the woods all around.
Since we had not speech
We softly moaned together there,
Howling hoarsely at the faraway stars
That almost eluded our desperate reach.
He will not remember (though I cannot forget)
Those few brief moments that we shared
Casting grasping silhouettes.


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