Red Fish
The red plastic fish I dig from the garden
turning up soil for two new rose bushes
is from your water-play, the large white
plastic bowl I gave over to your obsession.
All day if I let you, you’d stand or squat
like some great god over your watery
dominion, a sing-song of chatter only
fishes and starfish and turtles could decipher,
your white hair spun silver in the sun.
When you were newborn you spoke
your dolphin language, whistles and clicks
broadcast through nightfeeds. O son,
now you map the currents as they warm,
the migration of whales, slipped, confused,
swim the dead white forests; when you call,
I hear in your voice the despair of oceans.
Here, spring has spawned thirty degrees,
midges swim in the hot air, the grass melts.
Soon, the roses will open coral hearts
and bless the garden with their benediction.