Nicholas

Honey locust and the fishing rod.
Hook silvered creek.

You say a river baptized your grandpa.
And from the canopy of branches,

you step into this purl of rain
to hold a bream like a sheet of copper.

Gods change things all the time.
Your feet into cattails, fingers ox eyes—

tomatoes lipped on spun vines.
Hold one, cut one. Who knew light could do that?

Each summer, you are one chalked fir
snagged on a feral green hill.

The heavy rust rattle of cicadas.
Three hawks in the brush.

If not the moon,
then a word for it.

Who knew what sons we might have in spring?
Mine, the warm glide of his hair.