For A Boy-Child

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