Scion

A poem of self

Little Earth and wind, he is
A handful
Of clay, molded in a foundry not
Cobblestone but
Flesh and bone and
Silent as the nightfall on
A frozen winter afternoon

His seeds were sown in permafrost, and
nearly lost, ejected with a noose tightly
bound and
The toll to be collected before
His first breath, but death shook loose
When he took the noose and
The boy screamed ‘let’s
Try this again’

He is his Mother’s Will with
Ink and quill, he carves in stone how
He sees it and if he
Sees fit, the
Walls will move in his wake, tectonic and steady his
Furnace stocked and ready to be
Set ablaze

He is his Father’s Fire
Fierceful ire, contained and funneled
Through clouded eyes, grey as the ashen
Remains from city, left behind, some pity yet
He moves on, still

With soles of iron
Heavy and rusted
Fused with the earth, a bead follows
With every step, every stumble as he breaks
Through, who knew that
The boy would rise
Once again