How the Father Raises His Son

for Steve Williamson and his son

A familiar photo: Baby Son,
Barefoot, maybe nude, with one
Huge Dad hand rising under
Both his tiny feet, wonder
Of ascension overtaking fear
Of the fall, the high atmosphere
Now his to waver in. His wee balls
Back into his body's walls
But his soul goes, “Hey! Okay! Hosanna!”

Early man in the savanna
Already knew the trick: grace
And potency are equal in the space
Before the dawning; each new Sun
Unveils the magic as it's done:
It doesn't rise, it's raised,
Hurtled, lofted, praised
By the sure velocitous thrust
Of Father Earth. As we trust
Each throw of morning, so
The towering kid will know
Who he is by where
He is, inheritor of air
And gravity, sustained above
His Pop by balanced pride and love.