Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine—Luke 15:31

Everything you are: a father, a son, a man.
Life’s gift is in the giving, your body is mine in the genetic plan.
I know who you are and what you are not.
Between the two of us, Time is enough if truly begot.
You hold love’s promise in your feet and hands.
And the word’s made flesh as the soul commands.

He flies through the air with the greatest of ease… the daring young man on the flying trapeze…
She said, “How could you fail?” It looked so easy for you to please.

How can art hold time’s shape? The circus maximus is a Mouseketeer sideshow?
Art’s anything goes, nothing is sacred. The soul must say “No!”
O Prodigal Son and father, I feel you in my soul as Prime Object One.
The intimacy between imagination and memory blesses an eternity won.
My gift is in the giving, mapping here and now to a place called There.
Father, Eternal Love, I tenderly kiss your snow white hair.