My Son

My son is two. I watch him walk like a drunken prince. With his body bare I can see his soul better. His shoulder blades gesture like vestiges of wings. His features stenciled upon pale flesh by hands that have been before me. He so wants to be like me. His every movement like a dusty mirror or awkward shadow of a bird in flight. Every sound an echo heard. Every cell pregnant with my urges. But my urge is to be like him. To return to childhood's safe embrace and certain honor. If I return to this place I hope my eyes will look again upon his face even until his blades are wings once more. Until I have circled his creaturehood and know every hidden cleft where I have left my print indelible unable to be consumed. Until all that he is is in me and our hands are clasped, forged, entwined, in voiceless celebration. Until we are alone like two leaves shimmering high above a treeless landscape never to land.