Tuesday, January 18, 2005


by Zinta Aistars

His few years course in a sizzle of blue fire
through a network of blissful veins—
how alive is this blossoming life
even now reborn and electrified
in its second decade of hard won knowledge,
slow-sculpted understanding, newly honed wisdom,
for youth, too, can be wise.

I watch from my place
this tireless vigor, hope unbeaten
by first hard knocks,
a series seemingly without end,
a battering, a beating,
slapped silly by life.

This resilience of propped wings,
elasticity of childhood hopes
to find and form his rightful place:
that solid and steadfast fit,
a rock rooted in rapids,
holding steady in whitewater,
unmoved and uneroded.

My son, my manchild, my shining moment
born of darker ones—
my purest pleasure and prideful selfishness,
my joy. You are
my fisted protest
in this rebellion of survival.
Beyond all, through all,
in spite of everything,
in this vicious yet delicate life.

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