Our Son

Our son—
This wonder to us
With a mind of his own
That sees and hears the world
And reports back to us his own findings
In this sweet fellowship into which we have grown
In these nineteen years—

He is not us,
Yet in one sense,
It is as if we have spawned
Other eyes and ears and thoughts
From which to be enriched as we may.

He has become such a part of us.

And yet,
I suppose that when we have gone
He will remain, being as he is
And increasing his own tent
And filling his own quiver,
Until he, too, is ready
To go on to that next world,
Where we all go to discover
For sure just what was the point
Of this grand time of
Discovery and strife
In this beautiful-ugly world.

And won’t we walk there,
We three—
With whomever he brings along—
And wonder at the things
Of that Second World
As we do the things of this one?

And we shall all discover
Where we have been right
And where we have been wrong,
And see the big picture,
In view of which, I expect,
It will all make grand sense.

And then we will finally know
Face to face
The Wisdom to which
We are now so drawn—
That seems so right
And attractive,
Even here in this fog,
Where we are such gifts
To each other—
Which, it seems,
Might just have been
The plan.

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