THE STEGER Prize For Poetry
Walking With My Unborn Son
by Tom Dunn
My five year old son slips his tiny hand from my grip.
His run is like the trot of a colt, heavy hoofed and headlong.
He chases ducks coming up from the riverbank.
They flutter their wings with irritation,
delighting him in their frantic escape back to the water.
"Daddy, I love ducks."
He locks his hand back with mine, scraping his feet in the dirt path.
The leaves of the trees chime their delicate song, catching his attention.
We step off the path to sit under the giant Oak, floating like an emerald cloud.
The sun weaves through branches and leaves,
my son stares up from the trunk with wonder.
"Daddy, I love trees."
Our feet dot the dusty path like footprints on the moon.
My son grabs a stick from the ground, poking at the earth as it passes.
Sweeping wind picks up the grainy dirt, swirling it into the sky.
The heavy air pushes against our chests,
my son spreads his arms and pretends to fly.
"Daddy, I love wind."
He stops in front of me, smiling with his mother's lips.
How did we create something so beautiful?
Sunlight leaks over my shoulder and into his eyes.
In the reflection of his endlessly pure soul,
I can see that he is the future.
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