Actually,
You can’t make things be
what they’re not
You can’t make a stream
run faster down its course
rapid or languid as the fall line designates
You can’t make the clouds
configure themselves
into neat, ordered little puffs
And we can’t make our son
hop to, conform, align
when all his atoms stretch
along some still-unmarked direction
as he charts the constellations
of his singular universe
Obligatorily,
there will be hoops to jump through
See how he bends his lanky form
to condescending depths
and somehow manages to find some grace
complying with the needed tasks
Some things fall behind
and yet we can be sure
Everything that’s really part of him
will find a way to flourish,
to endure.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 27, 2012