I can plant dream-seeds in the crevices,
water them by moon-sliver light,
soft-fingered cradle-rocking – child,
I can snap the grimy green of weeds and
cut the choking tendrils from your heart,
grow you up straight, sun-tilted to light.
I can give you frost-cold nights,
a man-strong chest and wind-wild feet,
fair-play, mercy and competition.
I can teach you the ropes – how to walk them tight
and how to keep in boundaries and how
some should be swiped clean, split, Gordian knots.
I can gift you with the globe –
grasshoppers and Shakespeare and
canvas colors and karate and
all of me can be gifted, yours
down to the measured heaving
of my love-heavy heart.
But about the metamorphosis –
as to growing grey grave and gleeful,
quiet-wording, wise-tongued and childlike –
oh, child! – only you can do that.
copyright Bryana Johnson
Having Decided to Stay