At Seven a Son, by Elaine Feinstein
Copyright Elaine Feinstein
Copyright Elaine Feinstein
| Hear Elaine Feinstein reading this poem | Streaming mp3 | mp3 file |
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| At Seven a Son |
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| In cold
weather on a |
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| garden
swing, his legs |
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| in
wellingtons rising over |
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| the
winter rose trees |
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| he sits
serenely |
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| smiling
like a Thai |
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| his coat
open, his gloves |
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| sewn to
the flapping sleeves |
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| his thin
knees working |
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| with his
arms |
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| folded
about the |
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| metal
struts |
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| as he
flies up |
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| (his hair
like long |
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| black
leaves) he |
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| lies back
freely |
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| astonished
in |
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| sunshine
as serious |
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| as a
stranger he is |
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| a bird in
his own thought. |
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