a labor

He began as a smile child--
named him Poetry. Named him
after a son of mine.

A small child with a golden
crown that would rust with noon.
Catching the moon in his teeth,
Poetry would shy from the night.

In the winter, Poetry grew
by feet (the sun rose at
four, set at five eleven)
he toppled his age with scorn;
Stopped sounding.
Began silence.

Poetry is:
One hand less than his father.
A windowsill of dust settling.
An absence! he would yell.

Poetry stands in the doorway
articulating the way to my knees.
Making me note the motion
of only the minute hand of time.

He tells me this is how it feels
to be burdened, to be Poetry.

I am overjoyed he speaks.