My Son

My little son,
What songs will you like?
What books will you read?
How far will you run?
What sights will you see?
More questions come,
Spilling through the windows,
Seeping under the door,
Twisting down the hallway,
Penetrating the light she conceals,
Trapped in her tummy, tapping to get out,
Pressing upon her belly the measure upon us,
This challenge of giving life that stirs
Forth from within, ready to begin,
Fallopian pistons combusting her cervix,
Electrifying dilation, ready to ignite.

May you be kind to the ones in pain,
May you be wiser than the ones so vain,
May you be strong for the small and weak,
May you be brave when they're meek,
May you be free from the monsters in your head,
May you be correct about your insights instead,
May you get first place in your next race,
May you always play games with grace,
May you get the girl with a single smile,
May you persevere through every mile,
May opportunity shine over every deed,
May heaven reach you without any creed,
May the paths you take be in the right direction,
May they be void of detours and corruption.

So, my little son,
Who's going to play you the songs?
Who's going to read you the books in bed?
Who's going to push you to keep running?
Who's going to show you the sights abroad?
Only time will tell, patient through
The sacrament of our creation,
Pangs of yearning fermented in the night.
Hidden in this wonder, in the steady loving beady
Eyes of your mother, watching with affection
The bubble of her belly, as Sheep May Safely Graze
Plays from the nursery where you'll sleep, 
Lies the answer to who you'll become.