To my son, on the occasion of your first poetry class

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I’ve seen it before, the way you watch the world as if it were being created before your eyes. You separate darkness from light, day from night, dry from wet. You follow creatures as they move along the ground or fly through the air. Your eyes brighten at the sight of the ones you know. You grow content when you taste and see that it is good.

But I fear I have seen your future in those teenage boys, heads bowed in worship to the almighty app–a whole crowd of kids as silent as a screen.

I hope you remember that you are the man who drives the machine. You are the only thing in all creation that can solve this equation: A seed is a kingdom. A man is a lamb.

If I can give you one gift, it is this. You don’t need a window to see the world. Life AS IF the world is yours.

I will teach you the language of the world of weeds and seeds and trees–these things our mothers and fathers have always known but we’ve forgotten.

I know you will always have hungers your fingers cannot feed. I count it my privilege to feed you. Here is bread. Here is milk. Take and Eat.


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