The hat drops over his ears
bill straight, uncurved,
a slight angle to the side
though not yet the full teen rake;
he’s turning twelve this year
in first year of middle school,
the growing strangeness
of encyclopedic social rules,
protocols ever changing
in the hormonal entry zone
charged like summer lightning.
I stumble along in conversation
with questions boring even to me
until the fog clears with intent:
we will go to the mountain
where our story lives in the stones,
listen to the old voices and look
to the swaying green tablet
with roots down in the mystery;
when he asks for what he wants
something will open in the sky
and he will have what he needs
for the next steps forward.