My nine-hours son, so wrinkle-faced
Wry concentration of distaste
To find your Person so displaced,
Unclasp your fledgling hands and feet,
Open your eyes, the light is sweet,
Here is a world to grasp and greet,
Joy shot with anguish, wrong and right –
But they who leap to embrace the light
Unnerve the terrors of the night.
For you and us my prayer ascends
Where half our biased being tends
That we become our Father’s friends.