I tell my son he has dinosaurs in his backyard.
Sparks burst within his eyes, momentarily,
Until I reveal that these dinosaurs are the
trio of redwoods
that greet us with rusty lustre.
That these gorgeous woody elephants are
the great-greats of some long-ago tree fossils.
He just shrugs and runs off.
I tell my son he breathes dinosaur breath,
That these very same argon molecules
(quiet drifters / petulant loafers)
have been recycled, moved around, tumbled about
nauseously, ad nauseam.
These microscopic instigators of oneness
have somersaulted through the lung tissue of his least favorite teacher
and the garden snake that lives under the creeping blue phlox
by the front steps.
This time I get a “yuck” as he runs away.
I tell my son that he drinks dinosaur water.
That the shiny miracle fluid in his glass
Is part of one continuous loop of
lake, evaporation, cloud, rain, river, body, and so on.
I tell him to watch for tadpoles in his shower and
seahorses in our teacups.
I watch these mysteries of interconnectedness
try to permeate a seven year old’s assumptions of separation,
(how does this happen so quickly?)
Try to catch him by the collar, by the heart as he runs off again.
I watch and I wait and I wonder...
What will it take for him to love
earth sister, sky brother?
When will he come to know himself
as a continuance of this blue planet home?