Poetry that I could never recreate

      What kind of man weeps at the feet
      of his wife in pain, holds up the pink
      and shrieking thing and feels the throb
      of time. What kind of man wraps a cloth
      around his waist and holds the baby to
      his chest, walks through the streets swaying
      like a drunk in morning. What kind of man
      feels the rage of men and only swallows at
      his daughter’s fists at his chest. What kind
      of man does not give up his time, his many
      pleasures , but hands them over without a
      sound. What kind of man bends to hold
      them in their suffering, in their questions,
      in their garbled turns of phrase. What kind
      of man admits his failures, turns over his
      heavy stones, stands at the feet of grief and
      wanting and does not turn away. What kind
      of man becomes a father. A lasting place.
      A steady ship inside a tireless storm.
  

      Children, if you dare to think
      Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
      Fewness of this precious only
      Endless world in which you say
      You live, you think of things like this:
      Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
      Red and green, enclosing tawny
      Yellow nets, enclosing white
      And black acres of dominoes,
      Where a neat brown paper parcel
      Tempts you to untie the string.
      In the parcel a small island,
      On the island a large tree,
      On the tree a husky fruit.
      Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
      In the kernel you will see
      Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
      Red and green, enclosed by tawny
      Yellow nets, enclosed by white
      And black acres of dominoes,
      Where the same brown paper parcel -
      Children, leave the string alone!
      For who dares undo the parcel
      Finds himself at once inside it,
      On the island, in the fruit,
      Blocks of slate about his head,
      Finds himself enclosed by dappled
      Green and red, enclosed by yellow
      Tawny nets, enclosed by black
      And white acres of dominoes,
      With the same brown paper parcel
      Still untied upon his knee.
      And, if he then should dare to think
      Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
      Greatness of this endless only
      Precious world in which he says
      he lives - he then unties the string.