The Waning

Peter Pan is no consolation. All children grow up.
And yet, this probable outcome, like inevitable
evening, like scotch drunk deep in autumn’s
recession, or my dog’s Pavlovian bark
at the squirrel bandit who flits in
hideaway hollows, catches me
dumb as I try and catch
the meaningful
in it all.

Dinner isn’t simply dinner if I can devise the right
question, make Liam smile at me like he did
when he was three, or hum a melody for
Madelyn to harmonize with ease.
Fork for a mic. Her fans,
the peas on her plate.
There is no felicity
like mine.

And the lake swims that leave trouble in the lot, teleport
us to pre-industrial bliss: bodies baptized in a cold
current of still time, tangleweed about the toes,
as geese, majestic as monarchs, mock
our feather-less bodies to hide
their eggs in the shade of
a mossy green and
glassy shore.

Love is the improbable myth of being a father,
the cache that grows as I give my life away.
My children are parting nymphs, paper
ships that vacate my harbored heart
for an open sea, make room
for the residue of sweet
melancholy.