4.13

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.

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