We Stand at the Stop
The first day of school has come; I must force
my son out. I'm not ready with a printed message
to pin on him as his shoes start to track maps
I have not traced. Boarding the big yellow bus,
Eric twists to me from the landing and I reach
out to touch his shoulder. Waving him out
of sight, I cup my stomach in both hands, bow
my head and let my son go. Knowing how wild
horses can be broken, I ask that he remember
the soles of his bare feet running through Kentucky
bluegrass blooming over the hills in Hardin County.
