Father I want to be a weeping willow

             No son, you will be an axe

Father I want to be a seahorse

             No son, you will be a great white                                      

Father I want to be the purple rose Mother was

             No. You already have enough thorns

 

Father I want to be a constellation asleep

on dark water

          No son, you must be a fisherman

         of the stars and the sand that slipped

          through my fist