The Tempest

you, my son, were a raging storm
churning in the sea inside of me

i imagine you with brooding curls,
a tempest in your spirit born of my anxiety

some days I am a fragile skiff
tossed and turned as you command the waves

in sheets of tears and torrents of laughter
and lightning stabs from your elbows

then suddenly, my son
you'll break through the grey
into shining, furious glory

The first poem I ever wrote you, 8-16-12  {photo}