I do not remember the mornings,

but I can go back to the nights:

    I was in bed,

    ready for sleep,

    and young;

    a boy.

I opened my eyes, and saw my father.

I think he was quiet,

    perhaps asleep.

As I laid still, my blood was warm,

and it moved through my heart.

Its founts were the day's joys,

each amplified by promises of cousins,

    of grandparents,

    of my father's siblings;

        all animated by my father's presence and love.

I was a child then,

and I am learning

    to be young

    again.