It never ends, the bruise
of being—messy,
untimely, the breath
of newborns uneven, half
pant, as they find
their rhythm, inexact
as vengeance. Son,
while you sleep
we watch you like a kettle
learning to whistle.
Awake, older,
you fumble now
in the most graceful
way—grateful
to have seen you, on your own
steam, simply eating, slow,
chewing—this bloom
of being. Almost beautiful
how you flounder, mouth full, bite
the edges of this world
that doesn’t want
a thing but to keep turning
with, or without you—
with. With. Child, hold fast
I say, to this greening thing
as it erodes
and spins.
Kevin Young – “Greening”
@Deardarkness
R. Francis Williford 