Our lives are made fragile by the things that we love
and the years our love brings to bear.
Chris lay sleeping as I prepared to leave
and I stood and stared thru the bars of his crib.
He loves me to tickle him and his eyes shine as he squeals
and he can say ‘Da-dee’ and does, again and again.
Some place from far back inside of me
as I looked watching him sleep
I thought of how fragile are all of our lives.
The patterns of security, comfort and association we erect
against these wars and illnesses, crimes and disasters…
none of them are less real, because we love.
Its just that my perception
of how life and its vagaries comes together
with our love and its attachments
has sharpened with age.
As the blunders of youth’s mania
and other distortions fall away
and I see the ‘human condition’ more,
and I cringe at how naked we stand.
But Chris didn’t know … even that I was leaving
his blankets and thumb and baby fat warmth
defined the world he knows.
gallagher
29 Nov 1981
LAX, Vancouver bound
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
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on Sunday, November 29th, 1981 at 12:00 am and is filed under 1981, Rose, San Juan Capistrano.
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