Fruit under the Tree

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Prompts
Interior object: a notebook
Exterior sight: fruit dropping under the Tangelo tree
Broadcast media: A song “Love can move mountains”
Print media: A newspaper article
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We have countless things to talk about
but walls,
things, miles
get in the way.
So two years ago, I started this
“Mead--Five-Star Composition-Book”
and wrote on the first page,
“Letters to my Son,”
now half-full.

The wind sneaking in from the open window
is taking its dark teal cover
to a slow-dance, in step
with the sappy song on the radio:
“There ain’t a dream that don’t have the chance
To come true now
It just takes a little faith, baby.”

More than a dreamer,
a young man away from home,
you are after
fairy tale tracks in the jungle;
to avoid disgust
--both yours and mine--
I try not to become my mother.

Instead, I prop you up and squint
with locked-in instinct or pride
at the newspaper article
you sent from Washington D.C.
“Light on the Debate Trail”
carrying your byline,
a rehearsal or the start of true passage.

Suddenly, a thud in the backyard...
I notice that the wind has dropped
a plumb fruit
precisely under the tangelo tree.

A motion, a tune, this perfect time shift
unveil a rhythm of things only the heart knows.
Thus, hoisted by your phrases,
I go from feelings
to writing.