Odin, wishing his son was not grown:

When Asgaard was young and wolves had not yet begun to howl

and the serpent’s tail was not yet unlatched, breaking the circle

nor my eyes weakened so that each day I squinted a little more,

we would walk, you and I, down by the river where it always rained –

the water sunk deep into the weeds, and the bank overrun with activity

as everything tried to get in or out of the churning – I remember

that your little footsteps squelched as we trod, leaving little pools behind.

My hand clutched yours and we peered into the river’s murky water,

your eyes constantly drawn by the lure of fleeing speckled frogs

or the shimmer of returning salmon: in those days you paused often

and let my words, like that swift river, wash against you, filling you,

I hope, with some of the wisdom I had luckily collected in my travels.

When you were four years old you hid a duck under a tin bucket
until it was found it three days later. Then there was that spring day

you clomped down the wooden stairs, a brush in your small hand

that dripped paint like bright laughter, and the time you comfortably sat

on the window ledge and leaned too hard against the fly wire screen.

We laughed until we drew tears when your bewildered head popped up-

a Jack-in-the-box from amongst the pineapple sage’s deep red flowers.

I wish you’d come home, my man-now son, but not all grown-up.

I’d like, just occasionally, a miracle and that three old to visit me again

so I could hold him close, feel his soft skin and maybe try even harder

to imprint what I know must fade with the thieving years. As it is,

standing by the river, the rainbow bridge shows signs that it fades,

and my empty hand throbs with memory – and I sense your absence…

I feel like I am a duck under a tin bucket, in the darkness, waiting...