To a son

The one you love
Will be with you
Or someone else.
Do not waste on
Those you fawn
The love for they
Who will return.

They will be with someone else,
Or they’ll remain with you. That
Pain you feel is like a bandaid,
Ripped off, but only to let your
Wounds be opened to healing.
I see my wife as a painter sees his craft:
Essential to who I am, defining my life.
The same is true of all you do, but only
Your spouse can love you through the rest.
Time is pulsating scrapings of old sand:
Meant to shine through grime removal,
But wasting what cannot otherwise be used.