Kevin, and his golden-haired boys,

Who are normally so full of noise,

Sit so quietly with him now,

As reverently as they know how.

 

In the second pew, left hand side,

There's lots of room, the bench is wide;

But they're all clustered close together,

Wanting to be next to father.

 

Kevin's arms and heart are wide:

He holds two, with two at his side;

They seek attention and security,

By being as close as they can be.

 

Little replicas of their dad,

They're in his image, each little lad;

They watch and mimic, trying to be

Just like him, and that's a key.

 

We're all clustered down here together,

Wanting to be back with Father.

We ask His counsel, mimic and watch

To become like Him, as He taught.

 

Pity the dads who aren't like Kevin,

Whose sons can't comprehend heaven.

But blessed are these golden-haired boys

Who to both fathers are such a joy.

 

Kevin's never before been a dad,

Such experiences he's never had;

But it's a job he truly enjoys,

He's a very good boy, raising good boys.

 

 

 

A love note to my son

on his 32nd birthday—James

 

14 October 2006