Ben's Songs

In the long light of an autumn day
my small son dances
at the end of our driveway.
To what music?
No boombox thumps,
no car radio intrudes,
nothing you could dance to:
the roar of a garbage truck,
a passing car, a barking dog.

But Ben feels some
happy, silent beat,
and matches the rhythm he
hears: knees bent,
bounces up and down,
hands splayed,
arms stretched, embraces
the moment in the
sinking light.

He looks up at me, beaming,
and reaches for my hand.
As our fingers touch, I hear it:

crickets in the dusk.

I join his dance
in the golden light
of his Autumn dance hall.

The world sings to my son
songs I have forgotten
until he dances them to me.