To My Daughter's Boyfriend, Ten Years From Now

I promise not to come between you;
I’ll build no walls, intercept no phone calls.
I’ll not play Capulet to your Romeo.

But in return, you must promise me this:

You must remember walking through the woods,
eyes sharp, looking for deer, for stones, for treasure.
You must remember how fragile the world felt,

each step cracking a twig, each sound sharp
and dangerous. You were still that day, gentle.
You must be that gentle with my daughter.

And you must remember the joy of playing
football in the living room, the crash of shoulder
into furniture and floor. You must remember

the humbling roar of a million imaginary fans,
the electric thrill of breaking Mom’s rules.
You must give that joy to my daughter.

And remember the good luck stone you carried
in your pocket until you outgrew good luck.
You told everyone it was quartz, even though

you knew it was a diamond. You held it to the sun
once and saw a shooting star. You must carry
my daughter just that closely to your heart.

If you want to love my daughter, young man,
you must remember how to be a boy.