Son Death Poems Archive
The Greeks and Romans believed it:
that the swallow, the mysterious bird darting
between trees, skimming the surface of fields,
carried the souls of dead children within their breast
a liaison between the living and the gods.
God saw you getting tired, when a cure was not to be.
So he wrapped his arms around you, and whispered, “come to me”.
You didn’t deserve what you went through, so he gave you rest.
God’s garden must be beautiful, he only takes the best.
I will lend you, for a little time,
A child of mine, he said.
For you to love the while she lives,
And mourn for when she’s dead.
We are connected,
My child and I, by
An invisible cord
Not seen by the eye.
They say there is a reason,
They say that time will heal,
But neither time nor reason,
Will change the way I feel,
It’s my very favorite place.
I feel closer to you there.
We rock the hours away.
Me and your Teddy Bear.
The rocking chair is squeaking,
as rocking chairs will do.
I pretend the one I’m holding
isn’t Teddy Bear, but you.
Are there rocking chairs in Heaven
where little babies go?
Do the angels hold you closely
and rock you to and fro?
Do they talk silly baby talk
to get a smile or two,
and sing the sleepy lullabies
I used to sing to you?