To My Children
(a poem)
The sun gleams brighter off your brow.
The air flows sweeter in your wake.
The earth turns smoother under your feet.
May you fill the measure of your creation.
Swim deep oceans,
climb tall mountains,
draw full breaths,
spread your arms wide under rolling skies.
Fill big shoes,
lift heavy loads,
laugh with your eyes closed,
love wild,
think deep,
run far.
Earth is waiting for what only you will bring.
* Yes, you read that right. Seventeen. Mind-boggling.
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I am 100% positive that's a typo and you really mean 15 at most.
ReplyDeleteBut typo aside, that is a beautiful poem. And Roscoe is a great guy.