for Tavi

I hold the swaddled package
of my hour-old grandson,
hands and arms golden
in the aura of his
newness.
Though hospital protocol deems him
a biohazard—vernix and birth goos
not yet removed—
I feel the tendrils
of our hearts
intertwine.

I moisten these cords
with tears,
and know
I am
a goner.

(No. 57 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

The hard won arrival of my grandson has been a blessing and teaching beyond anticipation–despite cultural messaging about the marvels of grandparenting that should have prepared me.

I was still trying to figure out how to write a poem about him without being judged by poet literati as hopelessly sentimental and self-centered (Sharon Olds, notwithstanding), when I consulted an accomplished poet acquaintance about the matter.  He had recently published a chapbook of poems about his daughter on the occasion of her 21st birthday.  “Children, work, friendship, nature–it’s just what I write about,” he replied.

Good enough for me.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)