Father with son in hand
Spread out like a Renaissance statue
Each one wrapped in separate opposing motion
The boy craning to look
Arms extended towards the sky then ground
Eyes looking at the passing dog
Then up to his father’s face
Mouth moving, screaming, talking
As he wriggles over-brimming
With emotions he has not grown into.
The father strives ever forward
He is the through line for the piece.
His is the path your eye follows
Before it wanders out to the frenetic edges
And his line never wavers
Except occasionally to glance at his son
But he cannot look for long
For his path once wild as an untamed breeze
Has now been bridled forward
He looks at his son as the
tamed stallion glances at the colt
with mingled regret, love, and impatience.
