They Grow Up From Me
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
with toddler foot, stalking our bedroom chamber.
I have seen them hilarious, giggling, full of cheek,
that now are detached and do not remember
that sometime I put them in their manger
to clean their poop with Luv's wipes; now they range,
busily hanging out with a bunch of strangers.
Thankéd be fortune it hath been otherwise.
Twenty times better; but once in special,
in Halloween costume, under dark November skies,
when their bags of candy from their hands did fall;
therewithal sweetly did they hiss,
"Daddy, you'll have none of this!"
It was no witchcraft: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my largesse
into a strange fashion of forsaking;
and I have shock at their apparent rudeness,
and they also love their growing adult sureness.
But since that I am so kindly burnéd
I would fain appreciate an email returnéd.
by Richard Cummins
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Richard Cummins lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Meg. They have two successful kids who have grown up from them. One is a writer in NYC; the other is a writing student and a senior at a university a full mountain range away.