The Descendent

Poemata 38

A CHILD is a mirror, darkly--
An image distorted by time;
Misshapen perhaps, but starkly
Drawn with a particular line;

Drawn by us, by accident
Mostly; as drawn in the dark
Knitted in secret, an incident
Which leaves its particular mark;

We can't help but see each other
In the face, the hair, the eye
As if they weren't another
As if we didn't know why;

What we love we see in abundance
What we hate we see there too;
The love and the hate a redundance
Of what is in me and in you;

Yes the child is for us a mirror
Reminds us of what we might be
A godsend at last, or a terror--
When face to face we will see.