Arms and the man

I will sing it like this:
the man reaching, backlit,
to his son's hand, arm stretching in the autumn sun,
last rays like leaves adorn the day
and the dark body of the image
the memory itself stretches long, long
etched there against the pavement
like a print in wet concrete
and I know I will come back to this, how it will
stain my eyes as I watch this boy
pass his own milestones.

Arms and the man I sing
and how we know our own
duty by these things.