My son Jack is a phenomenon unto himself.

He blows in and out,

this way and that.

Brilliance in a flash.

Brown eyes beaming

dimples gleaming.

“It’s awkward to talk to flowers,”

he says, moving my wildflowers

from his sight line.

He notices, fixes and builds the broken.

A detail, no-detail man.

Purpose-driven for reasons

only he knows.

This boy. This passion.

This wild child, this curious dreamer.

This season of the senior.

So many unknowns

still to conquer.

So batten down the hatches

the season of the Jack

is really just beginning.