Bed is right, the way
I tucked seeds into mounds
and in a few days
they sat up, seeming to rub
sleep from their new faces,
and later opened
little getaway wings,
then threw grappling arms
around poles to rise,
hanging on until
they could raise themselves
a few days higher
into fog, considering droplets
as the mind examines ideas,
aspiring over their heads
even as I tore out
creeping indolence and the other
weeds, and deflated slugs
who gorged on them
like bad habits.
And so, having started them
on their way, and regretting
I have to leave them
to everything that
noses through the dark,
I will rig up the guidelines
whereby they get a chance
to scrawl signatures
on the air, and pretend
fatherly surprise at their
blue outbursts,
and remove whatever swells
under their green hearts
until one night the snow
turns them sepia-handwriting
over the backs of old photographs.
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