Poetry

        for Zachary, born in late May

                          

                      Epigraph from Jean Piaget: Visions at

                      birth largely consist of light perception

                      and reflexes produced by light.

​

In June we dine on light

swaddled til we lose all sense

of day and night, new again,

paddling out from a warm dark sea,

eyelids dropping like shields

against light's abundance

​

the infant boy sleeps

more than he wakes,

myopic gopher slit-eyeing

the new phenomena flooding in,

sipping tiny doses of each morning,

noon, and night, storing them whole

in his spanking new memory

​

Myrna Garanis

​

The year he arrived, a hundred and fourteen

newborn Zachs joined him in Alberta.

The number climbs if you count variations:

Zacherys with an 'e', Zacharys with an a,

with 'i' instead of "y", Zachariahs and Zacharies.

​

Still, there are never enough Zacharys to go

around. Ask grandparents waiting their turns

to hold the new bundle of joy, weary parents

rushing to costume changes, jotting hurried thanks

to gift givers.

​

So many public appearances. Sleep times

interrupted by rides to and from the homes of

admirers. Parents full-time invitation jugglers.

Papous and yayas, grams and grampas, cousins,

uncles and aunts all part of the balancing act.

​

The nose of the family dog, Benny, is seriously

out of joint, his walks forfeited in favor of

the babe's. Zorba the cat, who's been round

the block longer than dog and child, has learned

to move aside, though he catches forty winks in

the crib whenever the boy goes out and about on tour.

​

Myrna Garanis

Early evening, two men out back playing catch,

loosening up from the day's frets and fiascoes.

​

They've got a rhythm going. Sla-aw-ti-ch.

Ball into glove. Talk pitched slow and even.

​

Bu-ah. Beginner letters. Buhh-aw-u l l.

First word from the grandson's mouth.

Wobbly legs aim for the object of desire.

​

Baahh-aw-uhll. The boy gathers it up,

throws like a sure-nuff major leaguer,

rooky on his way up, age one and a bit.

​

Rinks, diamonds. golf greens beckon.

Dad will tie him into skates when he's

three. Cut a golf club down to size.

​

The child's great granpa comes to mind.

A farm-league forward, good golfer too.

Gone before advising there to place a puck.

​

That reddish orb might belong to the dog.

Well-chewed. Oh well. Dad pauses

before rolling a slow one to his son.

​

Myrna Garanis