I started this poem in the summer, this 16×20 painting just recently. I’ve visited and changed both several times, and neither feels fully complete. Do any of them? Ever?
I’m watching my son form memories and experiences, many of which I’ve informed, but I wonder what particular magic they will bestow on him.
Cypress Trees on the Tchefuncte
they reach up
from shadows of themselves
so real, in another world
they would be enough
when the water is calm
they reach down
grey and wiry
dripping with the promise of death
still far away
they sway
they stand still
they change color—
vibrate a little in an August sun
he’s only seven, driving the boat
I wonder if he sees the trees
or just the wall they make with
sturdy trunks and graceful limbs
I wonder if he’ll see them
when the boat is parked safely in the marina
when he’s far from the river
and it’s the fluorescent lights that hum
holding a pencil
carefully in his not-yet nimble hands
forming words with precise and conscious marks
that rise up and drop down from lined paper—
moss-covered trees
hugging the Tchefuncte
