Awakened by the summons
Of the moon, he wanders.
His eyes, vaguely responsive
To light fluctuations; and
He often weeps when dishes are washed.
He calls my daughter, ‘David’ or
Simply barks at her.
At midday he routinely gathers
All family photos, stacks in towers.
He interchanges tasks of the dinner table
And the bathroom, incognizant.
The cat seeks him out and
They seem to find comfort together.
We keep mittens on his hands;
For, without them, he’s prone to
Bore holes to the bone.
When outside, he’ll rush toward the maple;
Embrace it, like Mom, and cry.
On Sunday mornings we have come to expect:
A laundry basket prepared, by him,
Brimming with loose crackers, milk, cheese,
Broken eggs and cat litter.
He creates knotted chains with his shirts;
Laughs, hysterically at the sound of the vacuum;
Sings, ‘In The Garden’, whenever it rains.

While, for years now, I have prayed
That this is solely dormancy;
And someday, he will be full again.
I solemnly wish that I had no memories of him;
This would make my love for him less complicated.

Pretentious youth--
Fervent sapling, impatient
In your early hours;
Whimpering, persuading
Premature unfolding;
Quelling such desperate hunger.

Perhaps you dress so quickly
In fear that canopy elders
Will flout your need and
Consume all of your pledged sun.
Pliable and shallow rooted,
You elope toward unobstructed light;
But are remiss of your future.

Bent, curved, blossomed--
You will feed well
As the banquet is first set.
Yet, Summer shall find you
Strained within the shade;
And only narrow filaments
Flowing between green cloaks
On which to feed.

The advent of Autumn’s wind
Shall press firmly against
Your crooked breast; and
Displace your sipping feet.
You will flame quickly, blushing--
Then disrobe amongst the clothed.
Naked and unable to suckle
the sweet reserve
Ahead of Winter’s frozen grasp.