He repeats Thunderbolts and lightning—
perfect pitch, his father listening to Queen
last night the clear antecedent
to the upbeat jumbled serenade.
Dear Goddess, this child can sing!
We discover the resonance above stairs
accidentally. He’s tricked me into
descending first, and doesn’t follow.
I’m a singer, too, so I sink
into acoustics Alone Again, Naturally,
filling the air with pure angst.
Behind me softly, I’m coming,
ascending a whole note and increasing
volume each time he takes a step
until at last he sits beside me,
hugging, trilling, I’m he-ee-ee-ere!
and by now he’s beyond his second
octave, the space acclaiming
this gorgeous bright tone, the
passion and authority. He’s stepped
beyond his three years into the well
of his full being, balancing us
with pure presence, the essence
of our joyful impromptu duet.