Weekends too, my son arises early
and from the frosted darkness sends back cracks
of axes splitting aspen into kindling,
he pack wood in and drops in scattered stacks.
And I am comforted by warmth in duo,
by fires from heated hearth and happy heart,
and I, not sure I've said sufficient thank you,
or told him he does far more than his part.
From boy to man, he's been his mother's keeper,
my snuggling, squishy faced potential God,
my bleached and earringed, semi-rebel manchild,
I see who you've become and I am awed.
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