This morning Primo stood in the doorway of his bedroom and told me that he had written a poem which he wanted to recite. The title, he said, was “What kind of milk is this?” I swear I’ve not changed a word.
What kind of milk is this?
That is the question.
Through the burning rings of fire we go
Our whole life is made to be helpful
That’s why we go to sleep and wake
And night is the prettiest time
Amen
When the sun sets and the sun wakes
Living is only to have fun.
Babies and grandpas are different
but they have been the same.
Amen.
Through the burning rings of fire
Weather cold or hot
Days are always the best
Through the burning rings of fire life goes
Reduce reuse recycle
Trash goes in the dumps
And that goes to a place I don’t know.
Dying and being born is only experience
Amen
Oh, my little Rilke. Night is the prettiest time? I think if there was any doubt, the matter has been settled. I've birthed an artist.
"Do you like it Mommy?" he asked.
"Oh honey," I said, "you wrote in iambic pentameter!"
He looked at me blankly. After all, he's only four.
"I loved it."
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