The same four self-portrait eyes crisscross this desk and heart. My high school
and art school artist son. Questioning all forms, moods, movements they survey.
Quadro-stereopsis—a living CAD program seeking insight: what’s in and out
of sight. No answers—better questions. Decisions flow into actions capitalizing all we know.

Oiled light from the right.
Hollow eyes and mouth
open to seeing the unseen.
The beginning of names
of what’s new-born.
Not yet time-worn.
Topknoted from the left
sure white lines chalk
Abe Lincoln cheekbones.

Once paddling a school
canoe up the Connecticut
River, you would not speak —
of divorce’s unspeakable
betrayal. Instead, we quaffed
beer, talked about rolling
an engraving exactly—
to align color — unthwarted
color, like purple always
lurking, you said, in winter ‘s
drab New England landscape;
the ocher march of new species
across burnt-over forest floor.

Decades since our voyage,
your image shapeshifts,
marking where you floated
back into my life. Your self
portraits help me locate
choice points for others;
like actions that re-yoked us.
A relentless legacy glides
past close-fallen fruit—
flowering near the family tree.