And then you'll pick this up,
As it devolves through time,
And see I thought of you
That late fall day, my room
A distance from the one
You occupied at night
As though to hold yourself
Attentive to the time
Or hold yourself in place,
Perhaps, a nightly hope
That words will be a help
To you to work a set
That are your own and might
Be welcoming to me
When I return—the wind
A rooftree overhead,
A ridge whose semblance is
A structure like my voice,
Its tones amenable
To you, I hope. If so, I,
The ridge in metaphor,
Propel my words across
This page to let you know
I thought of you and how
The coming years will place
A child in your arms, your
Son; and when you hear
The semblance of a wind,
A ridge or rooftree speak,
You'll hear the word I meant,
Son, son, son, son, son…

And then you'll pick this up.