elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2005-02-10 01:20 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2005-02-10 01:20 pm
I don't usually post anything personal, but...
I normally use my LJ for posting fics rather than anything personal, but.
In honor of my older son's 18th birthday last week.
I am still in state of shock that that chubby-cheeked stubborn little creature actually managed to grow up while I had my back turned, and has been transformed into a very tall and handsome, intellegent, and above all, kind and gentle-hearted young man.
He is, above all else, car-obssessed, and almost never reads fiction for pleasure, despite having been read to most of his life. (The one exception, so far, has been The Complete Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which he sat down and polished off in about a week. He says it just seemed cool. All offers and/or bribes to read anything similar, or anything at all, however, have all been refused. Did I mention the stubborn part?)
But in 5th grade, when he was 10 years old, he wrote this poem. He actually wrote it in class, beacause both his teacher and I would have had a hard time imagining that he had done it otherwise. She showed it to me in disbelief, and we shook our heads and said, "Where did that come from?"
So I harbor a secret hope that, maybe in his second half-century, if not before, he will discover the joy writing can bring, as his mother did. Although I'm quite positive hobbits will not be involved, alas. Here it is, mistakes and all:
Birches
Watching them lean towards
the sun, towards the moon,
its shadow dancing with the
wind.
Birds in the nest upon the branches,
being rocked to sleep.
Hugging the ground when a storm
comes upon.
With sparkling crystals, a light gleams
into your eye on a bright morning.
A branch bends down towards the ground,
with a snip and a snap,
barely falling off when the wind blows high.
A seed drops down on the thick gleaming
snow, to a little grey squirrel that needs food to eat.
With blooming little buds and bright green
leaves, it seems like heaven has fallen
upon it.
In honor of my older son's 18th birthday last week.
I am still in state of shock that that chubby-cheeked stubborn little creature actually managed to grow up while I had my back turned, and has been transformed into a very tall and handsome, intellegent, and above all, kind and gentle-hearted young man.
He is, above all else, car-obssessed, and almost never reads fiction for pleasure, despite having been read to most of his life. (The one exception, so far, has been The Complete Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which he sat down and polished off in about a week. He says it just seemed cool. All offers and/or bribes to read anything similar, or anything at all, however, have all been refused. Did I mention the stubborn part?)
But in 5th grade, when he was 10 years old, he wrote this poem. He actually wrote it in class, beacause both his teacher and I would have had a hard time imagining that he had done it otherwise. She showed it to me in disbelief, and we shook our heads and said, "Where did that come from?"
So I harbor a secret hope that, maybe in his second half-century, if not before, he will discover the joy writing can bring, as his mother did. Although I'm quite positive hobbits will not be involved, alas. Here it is, mistakes and all:
Birches
Watching them lean towards
the sun, towards the moon,
its shadow dancing with the
wind.
Birds in the nest upon the branches,
being rocked to sleep.
Hugging the ground when a storm
comes upon.
With sparkling crystals, a light gleams
into your eye on a bright morning.
A branch bends down towards the ground,
with a snip and a snap,
barely falling off when the wind blows high.
A seed drops down on the thick gleaming
snow, to a little grey squirrel that needs food to eat.
With blooming little buds and bright green
leaves, it seems like heaven has fallen
upon it.
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