a new poem from perhaps my favorite poet, Steve Scafidi, originally published at Dialogist. killer.

On the Birth of a Friend’s Child

Like the rumble under a river
the dead hear looking up
suddenly and like the beehive
roar of sighs every word
just barely is able to contain

ten thousand years of life
inside us quietly every day
remain. Like the sea-sway
green of waves without end
and the vertical plunge of miles

darkening down, this limitless
is comes on when you finally
listen in. I’m nearly halfway
to death and still may turn
and go the other way.  Watch!

Child, we are not here to stay
and you don’t seem to care.
That is what I admire about you.
You say giddy-up to the day.
You laugh and laugh and you

have no idea about rivers, sorrow
or the sea and you don’t
know me and that is for the best.
I’m a downer. Ask your parents.
We are friends. Child, we are guests.