To A Grandchild (Not Yet Conceived).

To A Grandchild (Not Yet Conceived)
On the First Day He or She Needs It  

There are ways to be happier. You might start

by taking your feet outside

to observe the light rain on the pond.

 

 

Don’t worry about your hair

or your canvas shoes, just crouch there

like this tiny measure of solitude

and slowing is what you do

every afternoon. Or morning, if

that’s your preference. Let the fish entertain

 

 

as only fish know how. After a time

you will notice the bee balm

 

with your right eye, then the bees

themselves, burrowing

into the blossoms, their little sleeves rolled up

above their wee bee elbows. You will find

black angels where you least expect them.

Also white ones. Also laughing men.

And there, in the window,

 

 

 

maybe a cat named Percy is watching you

watch her, a tree pasted over the cat’s reflection

as if her fur’s morphing into leaves. Neat, hey?

 

If you’re lucky there may be bamboo,

which makes anything in the foreground

look better. Now see here how the sky lifts

once you get underside lilacs,

 

underside maples? Fiddle around

fiddleheads, or don’t. You’ll always have options.

 

And perspective makes the difference.  Like close-ups

 

 

of a dog, and that same dog perceived

through the hollowed bone, then the bone chewed.

 

 

Colour is another matter. Respect the art

 

we have not a thing to do with. What else

can I tell you? Don’t fear the snake

who lives in the rocks: see him

sticking his skinny neck out? He doesn’t care

about you. The robins guarding their nest

absolutely do. Also, trees are good friends

any time

 

 

 

 

 

and textures are gifts. They’re language;

the old one.

Hold a pinecone. Consider the bits of it.

 

 

And stones, they’ll do the job nicely, too. 

It’s wondrous how plants grow through knotholes.

 

 

Don’t fret if you don’t know all the words

to things yet; some people say hens and chicks,

and others chicks and hens.

 

 

 See how the garden is full of cradles

and woman-shapes: the urn, the bowl

 

 

 

 of pond, the logs. Wheelbarrows. Oh little one,

faceless to me now. There will always be ways

to be happier. If you don’t have your own garden

steal into one at nightfall. Even a patch of grass

small as the shadow of a horse

will do. Or go forest. Woodlands. Tune into hawks

 

 

and robins. Child of the sullen-eyes, the world

only knows how to love you. 

 

-Shelley A. Leedahl