Jed

My heart is broken and may never heal. Years back I wrote a poem for my son detailing his growth from infancy to manhood . In the last verse I expressed an idea that has proven to be untrue…….for I have outlived my child and did indeed see "the finished work". Still I want to share this poem in his honor..

Clay

You were clay,
all red and bumpy,
seven pounds
of unformed clay.
I looked at the lump of you,
imagined the shape
you would become, puzzled
at the slice of someone else
wrinkling your forehead,
your hair the color of rose quartz.
What to call you,
how to spell it, little efforts
to bend the still soft edge of you,
to cast a mold to hold
your undecided face
For everyday
I watched your profile move.
Your chin, your cheek,
the bridge of your nose altered.
Your voice deepened.
Your legs lengthened.
My star-eyed sculpture
twisted under unseen hands,
a project I might only watch.
Still I celebrated each change.
each chip of the chisel
each smoothing out,
the way your contours chose to shift
like fresh art everyday.

And still I know
I'll not see the finished work.
Life is not through
modeling your clay.