Some children leave the nest too soon and fly.
And so an arrow through the heart of fools.
Kahlil has warned this mother’s heart the rule:
“These people are not owned by you,” he sighs.
Oh, let me hug you close just one more time
before you close the door and take your leave.
Beat now, once more, your heart against my sleeve
before you go to distant world’s unkind.
It’s Christmas when the world renews again.
We celebrate that child who did forgive
and gave each mother’s child a chance to live.
In each and every arrow there’s a plan.
Remind me when it’s cold and they are gone;
our distance so much greater with this song.
(reading Kahlil Gibran’s beautiful poem, below, prompted my sonnet, above:)
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.