Friday, July 15, 2022

For Joshua

My nephew is uncoiling
a green garden hose
to sew the spring

He’s three,
conductor and guardian
of everything he sees:
harmonica he plays, 

toy trains
he never lets fall
off the tracks. From this height
it’s not a swift descent— 

it happens
day by day. Soon he’ll understand
better what America is:
flag glinting 

in an astronaut puzzle,
history taught wrong.
Tomorrow he’ll remember

with bright rascal
eyes, their light asking
to unspool the hose again.
I’ll let him 

spray water
for the joy of it—I’ll delay
my lesson on

on the road will bless cars
driving by, echoing
my Babaanne 

in Turkey,
tossing glasses of water
after her children
when they left— 

may your path 
be smooth as a stream. 
My grandma in her doorway,
barely bigger than 

my nephew
on our curb: custodian
of passing strangers,
monarch of the lawn.

Friday, July 15, 2022