On the Fiftieth Birthday of My Son
His father wakes me
for a walk in the woods,
we and our boy.
on this sun flooded morning,
March 6, a date of measured hope.
The snow will return but not last.
I pull on my small knee brace,
that no one can see.
We three hike out
where every leaf has fallen
from every deciduous tree.
The forest gleams white sunshine,
crackles old ice, smells of water.
My son finds me a stick
for better balance,
the bark rough and safe in my hands.
He slows a little
at the deadfall logs,
to make sure I am okay.
I lag a little on the way home,
to watch their identical walks.
Nothing will make me unhappy today.
Carol L. Gloor