by Samuel Hazo
He runs ahead to ford a flood of leaves—
he suddenly a forager and I
the lagging child content to stay behind
and watch the gold upheavals at the curb
submerge his surging ankles and subside.
A word could leash him back or make him turn
and ask me with his eyes if he should stop.
One word, and he would be a son again
and I a father sentenced to correct
a boy’s caprice to shuffle in the drifts.
Ignoring fatherhood, I look away
and let him roam in his Octobering
to mint the memories of those few falls
when a boy can wade the quiet avenues
alone, and the sound of leaves solves everything.
Last updated January 09, 2015