When you were born, the days grew short
And Autumn afternoons dismantled into dark.  
While northern winds scarred the windows with frost,
Your body warmed our shadowed house.    
When I first saw you startle in awe at seeing horses gallop past,
I knew you were blessed with discernment and grace,
And saw within your eyes the joy of life I had missed.  
Yet even then I knew we would part,
And that distance would be a judgement on my life.  
There are few things I can tell you: seek serenity, demand dignity, And never close your heart.  
I remember your infant's breath, not yet soured by meat or words,
And am forever haunted by Your small hands’ grasp.  
Yesterday I was cutting wood and paused  
To catch my breath: I thought of how your hands braided
the simple air as I held you.  
Standing alone on the ***** of that hill,
I was lost in the body awhile.  
Then as I felt my sweat begin to chill,
I balanced my axe on one shoulder and struggled up
Through stands of Juniper and Pine.  
Feeling the pressure in my chest,
Through the distance of my steps,
I wanted you there.  
I realized then that distance of longing
And distance of the body are not the same.  
I remembered how your mother would show you a mirror
To hush your crying, how you stared into its depth...  
A mirror is merely light,
Replumbed and reversed,
Like when we grow old,
Stumbling through fog of judgement,
Into a landscape of compassion.