My godfather was the heavy, lovely breath
preceding transcendence into R.E.M. sleep.
In autumn he gifted me a poetic frame
riddled with spirit food, “if you can keep your head
when all about you is losing theirs,”
when all about mine was already lost.

My godfather was a god. A father — the aglet
of our familial shoelace weaving Syria
with Liberia, planting one small world
into soil from the other small world
birthing an ocean of lilies, daises and blue jays
blooming and flying for eons.

My godfather is a willow tree, a cherry blossom,
pollinating the new synapses of a mind
stretched down seven lanes coated
with angel feathers and a common touch.
Remaining –
O, ever remaining –

among Kings.

n.s.