Editor’s Note: This is the third installment of Richard’s poetry. To read the the introduction to this series, click here.
Today our first poem is about the miracle of a new born baby, and the second explores the intriguing mathematics of family connections.
They say if you slow-mo the jerky hand jabs
They look graceful,
They feel new air, reach unconsciously for where they used to be.
They are two weeks out of the womb.
They say it’s the newborn’s helplessness that attracts.
They look new, almost alien, yet
They are the most perfect of our species and
They make us new again, these new ones.
They depend on us for diapers, dinner and direction but
They teach us too, and
They give us more than they take.
Today my son Noah
is half as old as I am.
(at 2:12 pm—exactly)
He is 36 years and five days,
I am 72 and ten,
It’s our crossover day.
From now on his years
will be more than half of mine.
(any chance of making it to a third?)
The first time that crossover
happened, my first daughter
was 25 and I was 50.
The last time
will be when baby Charity
Is 42 and I’m 84.
It got me thinking….
Together, Linda and I are 141,
And our children, combined, are 348,
Which means that, in a year,
We’ll be 500.
Add the grandkids,
And we are close to 800 and,
Because numbers now grow
We’ll surpass 1,000 total years
In less than a decade.
And by then, Great Grandkids,
100 unique individuals,
And in one more decade,
It could double,
And me a young nonagon,
Or nonagenarian …
I’m motivated to stick around and see it all.