Growing Distance

(In honor of mother's day, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote on my adopted son's 21st birthday.)

Underneath this
great-boughed tree, its
branches low, needles arc-ing
over us in fountain sprays,
we share
a picnic table,
my son and I.

Folding his limbs
to fit
upon the narrow bench,
he stretches out,
falls into
an easy sleep.
A thin strip of belly
between waistband and shirt
gently rises
and falls.

I watch
to see that he is
still

breathing. He rustles,
pulls the woolen cap over his face,
makes
his explanation:
To stop the chestnuts
from hurting
if they fall.
That’s not
going to protect you, I say.
But it will
ease the blow.

I look to the woods
wishing for
Lilliputians to emerge, come
to bind him
to this moment. For

what will ease the blow,
I wonder,
when I can no longer
watch him sleep,
when I no longer
see the six year-old boy
in the man’s face?