Chris the writer




My son Christopher Robison—now Augusten Burroughs—was born October 23, 1965. I wrote the following poem on his 11th birthday:

CHRISTOPHER

There is a log he knows by heart and loves.
He brings me gifts—dried roots, puff balls,
An old bee hive. Less child
More boy, he goes
To follow woods’ trails.
Dried grasses scrape against his thighs
And branches bent swing back like doors.
He weighs stones in his hands, decides
Which ones to throw and watches
Shatterings of pine and hemlock on the lake,
Their gathering again to tree shapes,
Blues and greens.
Walking home he drags a spruce bough,
Hatchet strapped to his side
In a leather sheath and light
Moves on his lips like water.



















This poem was written in celebration of Chris and the tree house his father built for him:

TREE HOUSE
—in memory of John Robison
You drove nails into the wood. Sap flowed.
You fastened three planks to three tree trunks—a floor frame.
And covered it over with wood.
You built a wing-shape in the trees.
Hammered a ladder and braced it—
A gift for our son.

You told me the tree house won’t matter
A summer from now. He'll out grow it,
Abandon it long before tree growth
Forces the planking apart.

But tonight with his lantern he climbed
To his tree house and listened
To snapping twigs, crickets, dry leaves in a breeze.
Moon low in the branches and tree trunks.
The stream flowed. Our son
Knelt in his tree house, his face lit. He listened
To night sounds, and looked at the woods.