Friday, October 11, 2013


It was not many months ago
as I panted, carrying him
up to bed, that he said:
'I wish I was strong like you;'

only weeks since, watching me
clumsily batter a nail into wood,
he asked with wonder:
'How can you do that?'

But now he is six. Today
he looks at where my crown
slightly thins and coolly observes:
'You're losing your hair.'

He sees my mortality;
his blinkers are lost.


  1. A nice, bittersweet poem, Father. I like its simplicity. (But a typo in the antepenultimate line.)

  2. Thanks, M ... & thanks for doing copy-editing duty, also!