For E., At Five
Still short enough for the hazards
of doorknobs and cornered countertops
my son --a destroyer of flowers,
each petal dashed, the stems bent,
broken. You are my extinguisher
of candles, a wraith among
your fathers closeted shoes.
Hobbled, your tongue stumbles
over the cobblestones of sound.
On tiptoe for the gate latch
you speak with eloquence
to all I would have--
reaching for the solutions
in interlocking pieces,
then moving beyondto wide fields, shimmering.