“Mom, I used to be a bird; now I’m a kid.”
We dream a day when he will build his way
out of the blur, hold the words in his hands
and fumble through them like wishes. When the tears
will lessen and carry his song, a bright
buoyant cloud thunder, a bend of color
in the sun. He is singing if you listen.
We slowed down to hear his tune, to fidget
with insecurity, these awkward notes
that sound like waves of purple and gold. We
hold on to ourselves, on to him like calm,
walk like stray footprints, shadow and accord.