Learning Geranium
My young son kneels in sun
on the stoop, the geranium
one step below. He leans roundly,
his fat wrist creased, his fingers around
a thin green arch, a stem blossomed pink,
warmed and ruffed at edges.
Quick as heartbeats he twists pink free
then eats the color as I would a grape,
rolling his tongue over chlorophyll and pollen.
Still closed buds take a breeze
and tremble, yellowed hollow stems rustle,
the smell of green and dirt lifts to his horizon
as he brings his face into the midst of this.
Here is another unmooring, the world’s wonder
a rising tide, the geranium a green miracle,
a primer he puzzles and dismantles. In God’s
language my son babbles his soundings, doused
and dowsing, his hands, eyes, ears, cheeks
and tongue guides for eager discoveries.
What matters to him is the matter at hand,
learning the furry stem and pepper smell; the past
and present tense of geranium, the root hold and grit
of dirt. Each day is a calendar of steps away from home.
ANNE MAKEEVER has published poems in, among other journals, Helicon Nine, The Eliot, Caliban, River Styx and The Ravens Perch. Read more.