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“Prayer for My Son The low river flows like smoked glass. Small bass guard their nest. Next To our house, the cardinals in their Crabapple feed two open mouths. Parents and offspring, we flex And swing in this future’s coming, Mirror we look into only darkly. My youngest is boarding an airplane To a New York he’s never seen. Raised in such slumberous innocence Of Bible schools and lemonade, I adjust poorly to this thirst for Fame, this electronic buzz prizing Brilliance and murderers. Oh son, Know that the psyche has its own Fame, whether known or not, that Soul can flame like feathers of a bird. Grow into your own plumage, brightly, So that any tree is a marvelous city. I wave from here by this Indian Eno, Whose lonely name I make known.” — James Applewhite