My son is electric with energy
feeding off the wide sky’s synergy
with the danger of the fall-off cliff face only feet away.
Hooked on feng shui circumstance,
he drapes himself over the handrail like wet laundry
begging for the chance to daredevil it
to the nearest unlevel edge.
My stubborn no elicits an explicit
Icarus eye roll oblivious to the softening wax,
so confident is he his feet can maneuver the menacing cracks,
skate the loose dirt like a mountain ram,
like a potentate goat miracle floating
the sheer rock walls with the ease of a ghost
without a notion he could fall,
or if he fell, wilder thoughts
(the stuff of the dust of Tinkerbell)
of spreading his arms into a span
to ride the circling updrafts heavenward
as carelessly as Peter Pan.
Funny thing, This memory is now probably 13 years old, and I can feel the anxiety rise up in me as if it were yesterday. Moral of the story: wait to take your family to the Grand Canyon until your kids are adults and they have yet to have kids. Or else invest in leashes.