Little Boys Are Made of These

he balances
he falls
he spins
and he flies

every chance
he takes
through this bliss

he is a flower
around which
the females flock

he is the fruit
the girls in pink

he furrows his brow
and giggles

he is a butterfly
that never dies

he asks
if he can
do this


a chef
cooking bluebirds
one day
a duckling
among swans

and at christmas
he hums the theme
of the Nutcracker
while coloring

unsteady yet
full of grace–
a gazelle
to stand alone

i suspect
the stage
is calling him.

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