(for Theo's first birthday)
He is nearly as old as one new ring
stamped in a tree trunk's raw diary.
Tonight Theo is teething, and sleep
is the downy stuff of dreams.
In the bloodshot morning, an ingot
of pure white is set in his pink gums.
The sun is a slow hydrogen bomb
detonating in the permafrosts of Alaska.
Jagged netsukes of shattered Mammoth
tusk collect in zones of ablation. Ivories
appearing from the unknown with Theo
cutting his teeth on the bones of the cave.
If you have any comments on this poem, Richie McCaffery would be pleased to hear from you.