Dear Son

At the gate to 2000 AD, 
   you are twenty-five.

I remember twenty-five.
   I was taller than the trees,
   wars were fought on other soils,
   and cancer was another man's disease;
   all my bridges touched the other shore,
   and I could jump the chasms
       other people made.
   
I hear the voice of twenty-five 
   in your itinerary 
   to jobs, and bank accounts, houses, 
   debts, and godlessness.

I see the well-worn Gucci bags you've packed
   with warranty deeds to houses in the woods
      and at the beach,
   promissory notes for BMWs, slim thighs, 
      straight teeth,
   ledgers of smart buys on the stock exchange,
   and hope that your government will still care
      about society's security.

I've come to watch you go, 
   warmly send you off,
   and even though I'd like to go along,
      my shoes stick deep in my own century.

Take what you will of me,  
   oddities for your museums, 
then ride your technologies,
   but mix the colors in the street
   into wild visions.
Invent words and cadences 
   to push poetry off the page.
Encourage the forests, 
   and never be ashamed 
   of looking up to see the tops of trees.

Ginger Murchison's questions:

Request from author.