THE SOFTNESS OF MY SON (TO ERIC)

 

Little boy beneath

 

The dun-thatch questions,

 

What let now impedes your eye

 

And crowds your brow to puzzle?

 

The wall before you

 

Bending your fingers back

 

Stands our common foe,

 

Harder than space bits,

 

Thicker than light,

 

For all its porous claims.

 

It admits no breach

 

Nor bears are infant's insult.

 

 

You are the keep of softness now,

 

Pliant as the petaled rose

 

Without its armor,

 

Charged to feed your ward well

 

And be its constant buffer,

 

For your brown time shall know

 

The conspiracy of particles.

 

Do not let

 

The walls beat down

 

The Frenchman's faith,

 

Nor suffer Greeks

 

To rob you at the grave.

 

 

Were there a god who willed us will,

 

Then might we as one then,

 

Bearers of the holy touch,

 

Like the white unfeeling nova

 

Burst by choice and spread

 

At the greater speed

 

To settle sentient dust

 

In vacant cosmic corners,

 

Wanting still the answers

 

To our questions.

 

(3/2/67)