Youth

Today I saw a boy bearing my name,
walking on the hardwood I’ve hallowed in my youth.
His footsteps were ghost taps in comparison to mine,
perhaps weighed down by phantom clientele, claws
buried in my shoulders like owls standing on
wintered branches, expectant of the things my eyes see
and the things my fingers do.

But the boy hops about unburdened, big eyes
glittering as if reflecting gold where only mahogany was.
Immediately upon entering the room, his feet raced
and with his fragile finger, traced a ceramic figure
of a cat, resting on top of a glass coffee table,
the deep blues and unabashed sheen all too enticing
for a child to leave untouched, much less unseen.

This one act of innocent curiosity shook the dust off
the glory that I thought had long been buried away,
but here, caked in the synthetic muck of emails and dead pixels
are eyes and fingers that do nothing
but take in – the intricacy of woven furniture, the fashioned wood railing
that once reminded me of chess pieces, shapes of nature
adorning the cushions in thoughtful symmetry. In that moment
it was revealed to me – children’s secrets that my trained eyes
have grown blind to see.

My humble, recently started website:

https://holdinghandspoetry.wordpress.com/

Feedback given:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8vxf7i/roads_welltraveled/e1se5vy

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8vx7bt/hollow_boned_butterfly/e1sd7hg