The morning is a chiffon scarf.  A child

steps out the door into soft light,

a spotted egg cupped in his hands.  

I rest my palm on the place where

his bowed head meets his slim neck. 

Sometimes this is prophecy,

sometimes recollection. 

To touch him this way is always a blessing.                             


Afternoon, a chambray shirt, rolls its sleeves up.

The boy lifts his head, tells me

of his dreaming, turns his attention

to the plunge of a red-tailed hawk.

There is composure in his turning.

His shoulders broaden, he grows taller than I.

The egg cracks open.  The night

 is a winter coat with silver buttons.


Kathleen Brewin Lewis is an Atlanta writer whose prose, poetry, and prose poetry have been published or are forthcoming in Weave Magazine, The Southern Poetry Anthology Vol. V: Georgia, Boston Literary Magazine, The Prose-Poem Project, Bolts of Silk, Slice of Life, A Blackbird Sings, The Penwood Review and Town Creek Poetry. She has an MA in Professional Writing from Kennesaw State University and is the Senior Editor of a new online journal, Flycatcher: A Journal of Native Imagination.

When my son, my firstborn, was small, I remember looking at the back of his neck as he bent over a toy or book, sensing how vulnerable he was and feeling protective of him.  I thought then that I would never forget the way his bowed head looked.  And I haven't.  He just turned 24 and I wanted to find a way to write about how quickly it all goes by, but also how the past, present, and future sometimes seem to blur together.  It's hard not to be sentimental when writing about your children, so I used the different articles of clothing and the egg in hopes of showing the passage of time, the stages of life, in different ways.




Copyright 2009