Saturday, May 4, 2019

Geoffrey Brock / One morning


One morning

The boy is wide awake:
he climbs into our bed
and clambers toward my head,
wielding a yellow rake.
Combing my hair, the boy
giggles with every stroke.
His is a simple joke:
he knows his plastic toy
is not a comb, my hair
is not disheveled sand,
and yet his furrowed mind
has seen a likeness there—
delight grows from small seeds.
And for now I won’t worry
what else might, as we hurry
toward what the future breeds.


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