Winter Sunday

My son who will soon be twelve,

who would joyfully toss aside Winter just after Christmas has passed,

My one for whom the sun shines brightest,

and the clouds gloom darkest,

There is a moment on this snowy April day

with you sitting next to me on the old wooden pew,

Rubik’s cube set aside,

Bored

bored

bored,

your regular refrain.

Through the tall stained glass windows

the sun does not shine.

The thought comes to me

that maybe,

maybe you would like to lay

your head down on my lap?

So I ask,

and you do.

Your dear head, still small and yet large,

with your new close-cut haircut,

you lean over and lay upon my knee.

I stroke its prickly softness,

run my fingers over your back, so long and lean.

When I pause,

you send me silent fidgety cues.

Yes, yes, boy of mine.

Willingly do I continue.

Gladly I will hold this moment,

Tuck it away and keep it.

And in this hushed room,

My heart sings over yours a silent benediction.

Some beams of light come unbidden, my son

And in places we’d choose not to be.

Taste its slow ordinary sweetness, this moment

Feel its hallowed rays all around us

Warming within you

And within me.