Through the water-speckled pane I watch you

as I place a fragile glass in the rack to dry

and see a tender sapling

 

adolescence looming. Across the dandelion-pocked lawn,

your cousins play, while you—your wrist and neck adorned

with jewels from your mother’s box, battle a dragon

just now unfurling her colors in the wood beyond.

 

I am afraid for you my dearest child.

You don’t yet know the choking hold of vines

consigned to constrain you—to what a boy should be

or how he should learn to be a man.

 

I see red flag warnings of coming storms,

gather my battle gear—clippers, pruners, saw.

I want to build you a fortress from heartwood,

cut away the brambles winding around your feet.

 

Look up, son. Spend these last days drifting

with the warming breeze. Find your silhouette

etched in the cumulus clouds. Too soon,

summer will take you in its hardened hold.

 

What then will become of the sparkle

that bracelets your tender wrist,

your willow neck?