I remember the warming eclipse of buds,

the orange petals waltzing with the cherry

which felt the weaving of vanilla

within, the voluminous world was so very

fulfilling as the old oak

that I have proudly birthed.

 

I recall the first work of my son.

Well done, I remarked, tasting the cold

the concrete delivered.

 

My son believed he could fly

plumeless, the plummet cut brief

by the crack of the noose

that ignorance believed was rebirth.

 

I cried

from the cut of such selfish drilling

into my spine, the surgeon’s saw never shaking

until my blood caused a grotesquely slick bathing,

a slippery death for my son.

 

The eclipse of my children

is marked by the monuments

left behind to wither, marked by the pride

of selfish ambition.

My Ignorant Son

(Poetry Winner)
By: Marc Eddington