I Just Can't

On baby blue mornings,
he mimics his Dad's glare.
Pudgy face remains grave,
Fur pressed down
By a continuous gust.

On baby blue mornings Dad strolls seemingly purposeless,
Burnt caramel crown whipping in the wind
As he drags each step leisurely.

His son drags out each step in pain,
Winds whip him like Chicago,
Young sinew holds little power
Compared to the Earth's will.
He thinks that winds like this
Must separate tight families
Must snap tree trunks like forearms
Must scatter and misplace the stars

Dad stands firm and stoic
As his son's meek voice manages
"I just can't."

Dad turns his scowl
Out of the biting,
Torrential wind,
Blinks his eyes
And smirks.