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)