The thing.

Desiderio da Settignano-Little Boy (Florentine 15th c.) 

Before it rose even one time

It was full of blood, excuses and rain tantrums,

Pacing out how to walk steadily on a cupping limb,

It ought to be assumed the thing was born ignorant to the monolithic complexity:

Leaflet foot soles weightless and held in the air.

Thank that it rose at all, 

Rained at all, for giving you an enemy

So eagerly pitied and therefore

So readily mismanaged.

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Mothers and fathers have gone a long while

Beating back the wild weeded run to a paradise,

They imagine being like Hawaii,

Their eyes already far ahead to that place

In the undisturbed future.

There will be red birds flying across the sun, 

Water rich with the reflections of ferns for them to swim, and still

--I'm sorry,

A predatory siren in the wood 

Lying patient, 

Ignored.