I want to wish a very Happy Birthday to my gorgeous oldest son, Mr. C! Can’t believe it’s been over half a decade since this beautiful creature entered my life. And I’ve also included the poem Mr. C inspired and that I included in my Wild Horses Don’t Stop at Whoa collection.
To mother a creature like Robin Goodfellow
demands a certain madness; a willingness to step into primordial forests
without map, compass, or weapon.
To seek love from a being, whose affections and tempers
are as capricious as the wind
is to ask for heartbreak and humor in equal measure.
While he regards you with lamb’s eyes
he pulls a jade’s trick and yanks down your Christmas tree;
with an angel’s lips he screams your ears bloody;
with fingers, small and sweet,
he pickpockets you just as you put your hands in soapy water.
You flinch at his next approach, expecting another act of impish gaiety,
but then he lays his unruly head on your breast,
touches your face with his small, sweet fingers
in a gesture of infinite trust, infinite renewal.
To love a Puck is to willingly rub the purple love potion
on your eyes and feel only what a mother can feel for
the wayward and willful.
Such is my plight and delight, my thunder and my son.