GOAT SONG GLUT...

I.

It's autumn after all: the fog that burns
Away as morning rolls on to its end,
The sound of falling leaves, the distant whine
Of motorcycles, chain-saws, trucks, and cars.

We are autumnal, too, for all that yearns
Toward fantasies of youth, and we pretend
At our own peril. Age should not define
Our lives, but time in truth has left its scars.

We're fathers [you are more than that]. That turns
Our lives in new directions; we must bend
As others' lives move us beyond the line,
And they create new lives, break down old bars.

What time remains is ours to make the most
Of. Lived well, died well: may that be our boast.

II.

If I protest the wise way you inform
Me of the distance I have yet to go,
Or how I'll view it all in time to come,
Forgive me, I am tender, touchy, sore.

Right now I feel I'll never fit the norm,
Of either set of expectations. Though
My protest may strike you as dim or dumb,
And rightly, please don't rush to call the score.

For all my inexperience, the storm
I weather now is something I do know;
My past and present are my rule of thumb—
Until the future comes, we can't know more.

I don't say, "You are wrong"—"You are not me" —
I just wish you would wait and let us see...

III.

A great man, a far better man than I,
Once said God makes his living presence known
In what we must do, though we'd rather not;
All other talk of God is fairy tales.

I've had that truth engraved on me—my eye
Sees its tattoo on all my skin and bone;
Its sudden shattering power has been my lot,
My boat has been flung far amid its gales.

We do what must be done, at least we try,
We pay the cost and see all future flown.
A new world opens, and it's dearly bought:
With life itself, love, all our holy grails.

And then, strange moment: we must sing the praise
Of Him who brought an end to all our days.

IV.

I step out on the deck; rain falls on me,
The just and the unjust me, both alike,
The one who rises to occasion well,
And him who soon descends to act the beast.

A moment later, downpour in the trees:
You say, "Rain!" and leaves rattle at each strike,
The fatter drops fall fast, and burst, pell-mell;
I'm glad to sit inside till all has ceased.

How strange—this sense of ease that's come to be
In these six months since my first nervous hike
To that small house where all my boundaries fell
And my old god revealed his new high priest.

You set my skin afire in odd new ways,
And still I hope we'll share the coming days...
C