Poem: September morning

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September morning

He’s tall as a tower, my son — graceful
in the resilient way

of bamboo, lithely connected
at joints and knuckles.

With guitar he eases out
a tune’s vulnerabilities, bending

fingers and strings as if not
bending at all, as if he were himself

the curve of wind on
a leaf ribbon,

tapping dew-riffs out of air.
Wind is the maestro,

we the geniuses who play
our one sublime

sound — tapering,
sometimes stuttering, ruffled

into harmonics, being blown
with the rest into a song untouchable.

Our son took a bad fall last week and broke a bone in three places. It’s times like this, on this day of remembered tragedy, that we see how fragile and vulnerable we all are.

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