I've always thought a lot about my future children.
What are they going to be like?
What are they going to enjoy?
I want to instill in them a love of the beautiful things.
Poetry. Art. Music. Literature.
You know, the important stuff that makes us humans.
The beautiful creations that make life worth living.
Anyways, here is a little boy that is super cute.
Poetry was always meant to be recited by little mouths.
I should like to have little ones like this one day.
You are the bread and knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh bird suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery in the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down the alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and -somehow- the wine.