And though he struggles to conjugate estar
and though his adjectives precede the nouns,
he’s doing it. He’s telling me about una foto
and all its themes—and though the words
are like strange spices in his mouth—paprika
y cilantro—and though he insists he hates it,
there is a tender sinceridad in his voice, like
a tree seed, perhaps, una semilla, that has
some vague idea of its potential, but is still
so trapped in its seed-ness that it is intimidated
by trees. And whatever part of me that is todavia
una semilla recognizes itself. How frightening
to see all that we do not know, to stand
beneath it like the shade of a giant tree,
to know ourselves as small and still stand straight.
My son finishes his descripción, then smiles
at me, and in his smile, I somehow see
the roots, the greening leaves, the trunk
as it reaches up doing what trunks are made to do.
