This poem was written for my “kids” in response to the dVerse Poets Pub prompt from Laura called Cascading in Fives, with an interesting format that requires the first stanza’s lines to become the last line of each successive stanza. You’ll find some wonderful poems written to the prompt here.
When You See Them Fly Away
I’ve always believed in pushing them out of the nest
but there is still that beautiful ache
when you see them fly away,
tentatively at first and then, miraculously,
doing what they were born to do
these tiny creatures join our lives
and there’s no preparation, no manual -
every “first” is an experiment, many bringing
the terror of “ruining them for life”, but still,
I’ve always believed in pushing them out of the nest
equip them to walk their own path
to seek, to be curious, to fail and fall
and get back up, to try again, explore,
endure scrapes and heartaches, and learn how to soar
but there is still that beautiful ache
that comes along with the pride, so many times,
like when training wheels come off the bike
and they ride away from you, then the first date, the car, the job…
it’s a bittersweet understanding that childhood will end
when you see them fly away
but the only thing to do is continue; sometimes, its
nudging them toward that thing they want but are scared of
that you know, YOU KNOW, they can do, you can see it
in the broad misty outline of their future, and they try,
tentatively at first and then, miraculously
they embrace and master it
growing into that person that only they can be —
and so that Texas-sized lump in my throat is just
the indescribable joy of seeing our kids, grown,
doing what they were born to do
I only have one bio child but several more who I consider my “kids”. I might not have been the one to push them all out of the nest, but I have that Texas-sized lump from watching all of them soar.
Additional notes:
- Jane Dougherty’s poem in The Four Swans called Watching the Sunset is a lovely treatment of the same subject: you can read it here.
- If you like the peacock and want to see more and a little backstory of how that one was the perfect pic for this poem and post, check out the post below. That’s the same peacock, which alighted on the roof after it buzzed us.
© 2024, Glover Gardens
Crying.😭 I love this, Kim. You’ve described the beauty of being a mother and being blessed to watch our children grow and hold them all our lives, just ever so gently.
“just ever so gently” – so true, Melissa. I keep learning how to parent as my ‘kids’ keep growing up, but I’ve realized that I’m actually just learning how to be a human interacting with these amazing other humans.
Parenting ~ a Cascade that beautifully and perfectly captures all of the emotions. I loved this, and totally related to every word. Brava and Cheers!!!
Thank you! I can tell that you are in a similar place.
Kim, your poem resonates so deeply for me. Even though they’ve flown the nest, you’re still there, watching, worrying, being proud, etc. That’s a beautiful photo you’ve chosen to go with your cascade poem.
Thank you so much! Parent is the one job you never retire from, just keep learning and evolving with, right?
You’re welcome, and absolutely.
We have only 18 years, basically, to help direct a child’s life. I once thought that it would be a long time, but it’s not. Not at all.
You’re so right, Nancy. And your reflection sounds poetic.
we have only
18 years
– basically –
to help direct
a child’s life
i once thought
that it would be
a long time
but it’s not
not at all
Although… I suspect the ‘directing’, while more diaphanous than direct, continues long past that 18th birthday, wouldn’t you agree?
A beautiful heartfelt poem. Such a great choice of metaphor and a wonderful cascade poem.
Thank you!
You are welcome.
Such a heartfelt post and so beautifully written🙂🌟❤️
Thank you! I appreciate your kind words.
Bravo! Through the eyes of a wonderful mom.
Thanks for dropping by to read mine Kim.
Much♡love
It’s a very long time ago now, Kim, but your cascade took me back to the day my sixteen-year-old moved out and went to college in another part of Norfolk, about an hour’s drive away, and I remember that ‘beautiful ache’. It wasn’t such a big thing as I left home at sixteen and moved to Germany at seventeen, and I was proud that she stood on her own two feet. So much truth in these lines:
‘these tiny creatures join our lives
and there’s no preparation, no manual –
every “first” is an experiment, many bringing
the terror of “ruining them for life”, but still,
I’ve always believed in pushing them out of the nest
That day is engraved upon your heart, isn’t it??? So proud… and yet so bittersweet. Thank you for the personal reflection, because it makes me feel better about doing such a personal poem. It seems that I can only write them this way,
This is so loving and yes, it must happen… you really describe how you teach them with trust… only they have their wings to fly….
Trust is key, I’m so glad that came through even without using the word.
“these tiny creatures join our lives” – from that line onwards , your words are full of the push and pull, of holding and letting go . And what a finale with that “Texas-sized lump in my throat “
Thank you, Laura; that lump is permanent!
indeed – the loss is eternal as too the wonder of their separate existence
We wrote on the same theme. I’ve pushed five out of the nest, but it’s never definitive. Some flutter back and stay awhile, and I like it that way 🙂
Your poem is so lovely, Jane. I hope my readers will go visit it and think of them as companion pieces. I love the analogy of the sunset, and also, I love the “fluttering back”, too, although those time also pass too quickly. Everyone, here’s the link to Jane’s poem: https://thefourswans.wordpress.com/2024/02/08/watching-the-sunset/
That beautiful ache… it is just that, they are learning to fly and us learning to let go. Such a heartwarming poem. I do love the photo of the peacock taking flight. I have never seen them fly what a delightful capture and so apt for this poem.
I’m so glad you like the peacock! It is directly related to the source of the poem. We had a family gathering for my son’s graduation from U Miami with his Masters’ in Jazz Studio Arranging (soaring!!!), and he took us all to PInecrest Gardens the next day as part of our Miami touristing. We were admiring the peacocks and this one buzzed us! Also, one of the songs in my son’s Masters’ project album is called Peacocks. 😎
There are more peacock pics and a longer story here: https://glovergardens.com/miami-nice-recommendations-for-peacocks-parks-and-restaurants/
Yes, I relate. It is such a mixture of emotions. The Texas-sized lump in your throat is a great description. Well done.
Thank you, Ali! I pulled the poem from something I dictated to voice memos as I was driving away from Miami (and back to Texas) after leaving my son at grad school in 2020 during the pandemic. I was trying to capture the complex feelings and that lump was really there. I never did anything with what I wrote, ’til now. Here’s the snippet, which is a little dark because of the uncertainty of that time period:
— —
I have a Texas size lump in my throat. I’ve always believed in pushing them out of the nest, but there is still that beautiful ache when you see them fly way, tentatively at first and then, miraculously, doing what they were born to do. Soaring, testing, creating, achieving, riding the wind to their destiny. Parenting is the ultimate trip in which it truly is about the journey, because there’s always another stop and you never know the final destination. I’m just enjoying the ride, now that I’m watching from the front row, clapping the loudest.
My son has moved out of state. That’s a very weird feeling. We knew it was coming, and we rejoiced at the news of the Henry Mancini fellowship. But now that his bright future is here, I realize that I was not prepared at all. I’m driving away, zooming up the Florida turnpike, leaving half my heart behind. Miami is in my rearview mirror. I’m zooming up the Florida turnpike, dodging road-hogging 18 wheelers, probably all carrying toilet paper and Clorox wipes. I’ve left behind have my heart in the form of a very talented young musician who happens to be my son. His graduate school journey starts now. I’m listening to a show on NPR about the dire straits of the live music industry and wonder what kind of future my son can look forward to in these uncertain times.
Thank you for sharing this. Letting go is part of our journey to learn to love. ❤️
What a beautiful poem. I’m sure your kids appreciate your efforts.
I still remember that beautiful ache. At first I thought the bird pic was of a flying creature from the movie Avatar! http://looseleafnotes.com
Moving poem, Kim. I am sure a lot of people including me can relate to the post. It’s always hard in a way, while we’re also happy for them.