My Son, My Sun
You came into my life late in yours.
Neither of us knew how late.
But the times we spent, at least for me,
Were oh so very great.
We've walked on mountain tops
and fallen to a low so deep.
The memories we made and shared
are now just mine to keep.
Sometimes the bad overwhelms the fun,
In my mind as I think of you,
but even late at night as I lie awake,
Thought of you, comes shining through
and my mind can see My Sun.
The thoughts can be so very bright
When I think of talks we've had.
You taught me more than you'll ever know. As
a teacher you weren't half bad.
You showed me things I'd never seen.
You were wise beyond your years.
You taught me to see the beauty of life
And I still see it, even through my tears.
As we sat on a log one day
on a mountain amongst the trees,
I watched your eyes and wondered aloud,
"I wish I knew what you see."
Nature for you was a canvas
that moved and changed with the breeze.
"Look", you said "Can't you see, how the wind
changes the shapes in the trees?"
"That's what I want when I paint a scene," you said,
"To show the world what I see."
"But you know I'll keep tryin' although
I know, that it was just not meant to be."
"You see, beauty such as this can never be captured,
In photos or ink or paint.."
As you smiled that smile with a nod and a wink, you said,
"Well God, I ain't."
Those were some of my favorite times, just
asking you "What do you see?"
But little did you know, then or now, that you
opened a new world to me.
You never thought you'd ever paint that scene
as you saw it that day.
But as I sit here trying to write, my feelings,
my thoughts, my heart,
If you were here, you'd hear me say
"YOU'VE DONE IT MY SON!"
"You've accomplished a dream, though now
you're unable to see.
For your thoughts and lessons of that day
are alive and well in me.
I went for a walk in the woods today,
and as the wind slowly moved the leaves;
I remembered you said " . . . that's what I'll
never have, my paintings just can't have a breeze!"
You were wrong my son, they can and they do.
For you see, the scenes that I see are touched
with a brush called "You."
I see the scene change with the wind,
along with the sounds and smell;
I feel closer to you as I smile and say,
"In me your canvas is alive and well."
I thank you, my son, for showing to me
your world as it was to you.
For now when I get down and sad, I know what
I can do.
I can walk in the woods or just look around;
and try to see the world like you.
I now think of you when my skies are dark and
the rays just seem to come through.
The reason is clear, why my clouds go away.
IT'S MY SON, MY SUN, IT'S YOU!
Dustin N. Thomas
June 7, 1997