My baby boy

It was after one when you left
the house that grew you.
You cleaned the room, stocked up the books,
swept the traces, aired the space.
You talked to mother, father,
and friends.
You printed hands
on the house that grew you,
on the people that watched you
leave.
Just after three, you left
the city that taught you
rainbow shades of winter skies.
You slid off the ground
without notice
to hold an ancore of your own
blood. You cried goodbye.
After seven you shook off
the stop that linked you
to us -- ground, space, air,
the shades of wind.
You left.
Three days later I got
the letter that said
this wasn't it
yet.
So I wait,
I wait and watch the beam
you used to show me
on the window sill.


Giovanna Bartucci.