My Son: Leavetaking

YESTERDAY was the last,
Iron-gray and overcast.
Then the night, pouring rain,
Broken with stress and strain,
As my defeated heart
In the destroying wind.

Now we shall be apart.
I never knew before
How close a woman can be brought to war,
By looking on a face she dare not touch,
Foregoing the embrace she needs so much.

This is the drowning hour
When all the lovely past
Must be remembered. . . .
Let us have no good-byes.
Rather, bow down your head,
Look in my eyes;
Take what you see there with you,
Yet no word said.