A young hand rises up out of the pond
like Elsinore of the lake, reaching from
a depth, dripping towards sky
coming to a new, different, life.
Green gold leaves nestled back behind and above,
the hand is poised, longish fingers, thin with
tendons, the fresh dew waters dripping off the tips,
as a fine rivulet separates itself
back into the depth from which it is rising.
The hand is my son, coming up out of childhood,
strong, fine, elongated, pushing out
past the enveloping waters that once were his birth
now timing for a new atmosphere, air, difference.
He is not drowning, but changing. From water bound to air.
The hand turns, raises an index, cups, lets itself feel
into the new environment. What it will be like when he
fully emerges. Second birth indeed.