My son

He’s my son, young man,

his cheeks gardens

of grass just seeded.

He’s a new path in the middle of trunks

of larches and of firs, of shady leafy branches,

he’s suddenly a green expanse,

blinding sun,

then again a wood,

moss, resin, little coloured fruits

of incredible scent and shy,

hidden among threads of grass and leaves.

He’s humid and soft land to lie down on,

at the limit of the next glade,

face up, with astonishment studying

the route of clouds,

the skyline of mounts,

the flight - free - of the birds

November 15, 2003