In which Your Humble Blogger tries to offer some kind words to parents who await with despair the day their children call them the dreaded "O" word:
"A Note to the New Parents"
You will always be old to this child.
As long as she calls you "Dad" or "Mommy,"
You will be considered an ancient.
This is not a hopeless position,
If you recall your astronomy.
Each night we are illuminated
By mature stars that gave us first light,
The light of our human infancy,
When they were well into middle age.
Think of all the majesty of that.
This tiny dreamer, made of your dust,
Will be set aglow because of you.
* * *
Last week, I shared a poem about the Kuiper belt. This week, we continue the astronomy theme by saying, "Hey, old ain't so bad. Stars are old, and we like stars." Master of comparisons, I am.
I believe there will be one more poem that mentions stars after this one. In fact, after this, it looks like I have two weeks' worth of blog posts left. "Eeep!" says part of me, since that means that I'll have to start working in earnest on the next project. ("Oh, thank gods," says the other part that never fully warmed up to doing regular blog posts.) ("Hey, who's Ernest, and what the hell are we doing working inside him?" says a third part that should really go read some Oscar Wilde instead of prolonging this crazy conversation.)