Clotho spun, Lachesis measured, Atropos cut
the cord, and the baby screamed as if he knew
he would not meet his mother, rest her soul.
O, love is a heavy cross. But I took him as his father,
turned what remained of my love to him and cared
for him from babe to boy, a very strange, enchanted boy
around whom birds flew intricate swirls and perched
along his outspread arms. He seemed the kin
of all creation and walked the earth on the lightest foot.
He was an indigo child, born to greatness, I was sure,
though he had way of smiling, as if a little sad, as if he bore
your sorrows, too (all else that he could ever do
was sympathize, he said he knew).
People were drawn to him; he shored them up
and broke their sorrows' solitude. He said it was his gift.
But compassion is the heaviest weight. And weigh him
down it did, far beyond his promise kept, far past
his spirit's 21 grams. Yet, he would persist and taught
the people still, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return." "That's what
it's all about," he said to me. How to change
his course I'll never know. I only knew that every soul
would bow him down a little more. I could only watch
as he fell beneath his wisdom, so alone.
One frigid day, the kind of day when through a window pane
the sun will use an icicle to throw a rainbow across a wall,
a bridge from all these walls have known to the rumour
of another place you'd rather be. I turned from wall to window.
In the field beyond the house he stood as tall as oak trees,
framed in glittering diamond dust. A little shy, and sad of eye,
he smiled that smile and waved, then dropped his head
and spread his arms like wings and rose into the vacant sky,
fading into the heavens like love's lost memory. Gone
these many years. Perhaps he cast the weight
into the winter's depths
to return, somehow, to what,
to whom? Again, I'll never know.
"But you?" you ask. Me?
His sole apostle,
I read, much of the night,
and wonder if he met his mother.