A Dad's Joy

When the warm summer rain
of his son's second birthday remains
only in beads of silver
clinging to abandoned webs
on shrubs. And memories of months
gone forever now effervesce,
he takes solace in the first "I love you,"
on a mid-morning in March's marching-in,
voiced, "I you." And he knows
that the boy begotten in his own likeness
and image even at that tender age
comprehends love. And he knows
that the boy peers innocently up
with his mother's unforgettable eyes
of chestnut brown, still sheening
with the dew of heaven.
And he gives God thanks for every minute,
and every second spent
watching faltering first steps,
hearing first words blurbled
then articulated crisper and cleaner,
basking in the dayglow of first smiles,
a kiss on a whiskery cheek, a hug.
Laughing when he demands of Mom,
"Take him!" not knowing usage rules
or 1st person accusative pronouns.
He rejoices in every second
that have been no less plentiful
and heaven-sent
than those warm drops
that too have become memories.

*
To Zach Bowen, with all a dad's love