Odin, wishing his son was not grown:

In Asgaard, when it was young

and the wolves had not yet begun to howl

nor my eyes begun to dim,  we would walk,

you and I, down by the river

where it was always raining -

the water sunk deep into the weeds,

and the bank was overrun with activity

as everything tried to get in or out

of the churning water -  I remember that

your little footsteps squelched as we trod.

My hand clutched yours

and we peered into the murky water,

your eyes constantly drawn

by the lure of frogs or the shimmer of salmon.

In those days you paused often

and let my words, like that river,

wash against you, filling you, I hope,

with some of the wisdom

I had found in my travels.

When you were three you

hid a duck under a bucket

until your mother found it 3 days later.

Then there was that day

you clomped down the stairs, a brush

in your small hand

that dripped paint like laughter,

and the time you sat on the window ledge

and leaned too hard against the fly wire.

We all laughed when your  bewildered head

popped up from amongst the pineapple sage.

I wish you’d come home,

son,

but not all grown-up.

I’d like,

just occasionally,

that three old to visit me again

so I could hold him close

and maybe try even harder

to imprint

what I know must fade.

As it is, standing by the river,

the rainbow bridge

shows signs that it fades,

and my empty hand throbs with memory -

I feel like I am a duck

under a bucket, waiting.