In this house, in this afternoon room,
by christina henry
my son and i. The other side of glass
snowflakes whitewash the shed roof and the grass
this surprised April. My deciduous evergreen.
Eyes half closed, he listens to pop foreries
of music- how hard it is to know- and perhaps
dreams of some chool juliet i don't know.
Meanwhile, beyond the bending window,
gusting suddenly, despite a sky half blue,
a blur of white blossom, whiter snow.
And i stare, oh immortal springtime, till
i'm elsewhere and the age my cool son is,
my father alive again i his duplicate
His high breath, my low breath, sticking to the glass
While two white butterflies stumble, held each
to each, as if by elastic, and pass.