Learning to Walk

My son forgets to watch where he's going,
looks up and falls because a crow flies overhead.
Before he has a word for bird, he can only
throw his arms up, laugh, and try to follow.
I'd forgotten that a crow could be so thrilling.

Last night I watched a crow turn white, flying
into sunset, another gift arrived
without instructions as to how to use it, where
to plug it in. Seeing Owen, I know it's true
learning to walk is learning to fall

and catch yourself, again, again.
We never quite get there. I've learned for now
my job is praise. The white crow,
the dance of purple in a rose's red, another step.
Another step. Hold my hand.

Sarah Busse
Copyright © 2003

Sarah Busse lives with her husband and son in San Mateo, California. She will graduate from Bennington College's Writing Seminars in June 2003. She has recently had poems published in Diner magazine and The DMQ Review, and has a poem forthcoming in the on-line journal, Perihelion.

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