son poem

there is an hour of peaceful rest
here falls no light
under dusky laurel leaf
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
some of the hurts you have cured
the poets tell
i love my life, but not too well
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
therefore i may not
there by the window in the old house
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
have you heard
in new york harbor
now for a brisk and cheerful fight