The Lightening

It’s hardly remembered, this first lightening of a child—
snip by snip each curl floating to the floor,
causing an impatient rising from the high chair

The child wants wings.  He’s evaporating in the air.
Yet, the mother holds him down, cutting a heavy link
in the nape of his neck to tether him to her, the earth.  

“Hold my hand.  Hold my hand and be still, my love.”   
And he does, looking everywhere but at her
She holds his hand tight, feels it fighting, slipping away.

She’ll never finish the haircut.  He’s riding and flying 
beyond the shears. The roots snapping from the bramble.
What’s left- the branches he chooses to  leave behind. 
 
In the coming nightmares, he leaves her a butterfly mask.
The night clouds only support her and him until 
he sees the moon and his soul decides to land on it.