the gold-gloved boy with the midnight blue helmet
landed a punch in my son's face
behind his black helmet, he never winced
he didn't step back, but threw his arms up
kicked out a leg, his eyes sharp
never leaving that boy's form
this warrior is little now
dabbling and exploding through
all the lessons which grow
the pathways in his brain, the peace in his heart
his calm stance, unflickering eyes
he who seems so small among those his age
is greater than the ocean inside,
he knows he's strong like the ocelotl,
the jungle's messenger doesn't need to be king
his wide circle knows a wise diplomat,
the charming kind who never has to put some down
so he feels up, but uses well his wit
and perception to ease the whole room,
the whole world.
and when he was two he liked to say,
'I'm peacemaker,' again and again,
with that mischievous toddler delight diverted and
summoned by a calm knowing inside
will be some kind of gift to the world
that only he can reveal
with strength and grace
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