A boy’s world growing inside of him
He fills the space he inhabits
His legs are long and his shoulders shift in the evolution of his stride
He is my boy
My boy the one who I lulled to sleep
My boy the one already blond-headed in my pregnant dreams
My boy the one who collects strings and bits and screws and parts–who draws planes, and dragons, and processes with ink and lines
Who speaks fluently the syllables of France and music, his keen ear an intercessory to his heart
My boy it is an honor to watch him look for the moon
My boy who looks kindly and curiously on poverty
My boy whose keen eye sees the sameness in us all
My boy who does not turn away from the weak
My boy whose childish anthems will evolve into discernment, 
My boy whose failures light my heart on fire
My boy whose form was known before I knew him
My boy who eclipses the curation of this world

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