on being a rose, in Grants Ward

To survive a season,

In Grants Ward,

Hardy must one be.

The winters are harsh,

And cold.

Water enough, never,  their is.

In the winter, 

there is an abundance,

Of sleek and snow.

This is a time of storage,

When the roots need drive, deep,

Knowing summer is coming,

And the moisture,

Comes not again,

Until fall.

In spring the family comes,

To clean and service,

The graves.

They trowel around these roots,

I have carefully, driven, deep,

In the ground.

They uncover the headstone,

To remark the graves,

By rounding up the Earth,

As there mama and papa,

Taught them to do,

So long ago.

They leave me then,

to  watch over and adorn,

These graves.

Rarely do they come again,

In this year.

In the later spring,

They come not, to see,

my small roses,

that I create, then, 

to decorate, the graves.

As long as I am able,

I will continue to monitor,

And adorn these graves,

They have so lovingly, served,

These many years.

On being my son, almost

He was my son, then,
almost.

He was the first son,
of my heart,
of my life,
of my soul.

The first sibling was he, naught.

The first sibling had been given,
as a gift to another family. 

I learned of his life,
long after the gift had been given.

He was offered as a gift,
to my wife.

Being single with no committed, prospect,
this gift had been declined. 

Shortly after our marriage, I learned,
of personal infertility.

Then shortly after that, came the birth,
of the second son.

He would have been our gift,
but Grandpa loved him first.

To accept this gift,
would be to end,
the life of a man, I adored.

So I watched this son, from afar.

Seeking then, every chance,
to continue to bless his life,
I revered him, from afar. 

In his youth, many troubles, he experienced.

Some troubles require the intervention of a judge,
for many years, we visited him, in a secure facility. 

This facility offered him choice and growth.

With this change, he experienced new joy
and deepened his relationships with his siblings.

Many years have passed and think,
I still, of this son.

Even in his death, I see hope and joy.

Our daughter has named her son,
in honor of his memory.

I hope they meet again someday,
and my grandson sees the joy,
I feel in the memory,
of the first son, of my heart.