No Larger, Grander Thing
Still in your tie and Sunday suit
you lean to me from
a tiny island in the creek,
you reach and nod and coax;
your wish for me, a running leap of joy
into your outstretched arms.
I’m four years old, have counted out
the numbers on this, my birthday,
and there is no larger, grander thing in
the great green world on a summer afternoon
in our sunny, crowded park
than my love for you, than my wish
to make you smile at me and at my foot-wide
spring across these gurgling waters
separating us.
So now I count once more, and almost go,
but fail, and push to leap again,
my legs all tingly, dangling strings, when
a fear I do not see nor understand
pulls me away and
turns me smaller than I am.
I watch, and on your face an almost-smile for me,
your lesser son.