NaBloPoMo 5
Mussels
As the afternoon converses
with the day’s dying light
at the beach near our house
my son and husband find a few mussels,
opened and empty,
shimmering along the shore.
They put some in their pockets
to add to his collection of big kid things:
feathers, uneaten acorns, rocks from the driveway—
currency for a toddler crossing into boyhood.
Meanwhile, my husband knocks on the door
of middle age, rubs his back that aches from bending.
His patience grows weary
from small talk with a small child.
They walk back to the house
in the summer heat
without speaking.
In this place they call silence,
away from my constant preening
and his sister’s machinations,
he takes his little sandy hand
across another country,
reaches for his father’s with all the strength
his four-year-old hand can muster.
Neither is willing to let go.
As the afternoon converses
with the day’s dying light
at the beach near our house
my son and husband find a few mussels,
opened and empty,
shimmering along the shore.
They put some in their pockets
to add to his collection of big kid things:
feathers, uneaten acorns, rocks from the driveway—
currency for a toddler crossing into boyhood.
Meanwhile, my husband knocks on the door
of middle age, rubs his back that aches from bending.
His patience grows weary
from small talk with a small child.
They walk back to the house
in the summer heat
without speaking.
In this place they call silence,
away from my constant preening
and his sister’s machinations,
he takes his little sandy hand
across another country,
reaches for his father’s with all the strength
his four-year-old hand can muster.
Neither is willing to let go.
Comments
I enjoyed the poem, but I think they are spelt "mussels"?
And you're right, I did have the wrong spelling of mussels. Thanks!
I especially liked:
"he takes his little sandy hand
across another country,
reaches for his father’s with all the strength
his four-year-old hand can muster."
i missed reading your work!
Great line. True line. My son's nine and it defines him just like that. How old's your son?
Thanks for stopping by. Looking forward to visiting your blog today.
I know it's silly but once I get into these projects I feel obligated to actually do the assignment and not fudge on how I do it. Of course I'll spend the next four months complaining about burnout!
:)
I especially responded to these lines:
They put some in their pockets
to add to his collection of big kid things:
feathers, uneaten acorns, rocks from the driveway—
currency for a toddler crossing into boyhood.
I also like the fact that the poem is expressly about the speakers son and husband- it gives the feeling of mom standing at the window watching.