Those first months in Fall Term, you slept 

and dreamed and grew like a cub waiting 

to be born, his mother’s womb in hibernation. 

My students watchful as my middle bloomed 

and bloomed.

 

Commencement was the flower that flew away – 

your phrase; you were eight. You pursed 

your lips and blew. We made a wish

and watched the fluffy head release 

its seeds. 

 

There were courses to take. First steps, 

first words, first bicycle, first broken 

heart. Each asking from you attachment to 

the same survivor traits: adventure forward, 

balance – and brake.

 

Graduation, a recurring awakening to the yield 

in loss: Fallen leaves, detached fruit reseeding.

The surprise of new buds on dank limbs. 

These were the notes, your song, 

your convocation hymn.