And I think I'll read one poem for my son.
I have a number of poems about him, for him, written to him.
This is the most recent, written last summer.
He was married last summer.
And we've been a very tight threesome through the years.
And it was sort of wrenching when he went away,
although we were delighted with his wife,
and she's like a daughter to us.
But it was still hard, I think for all three
of us, in somewhat different ways.
And the phone bills have been terrible.
This is called Letting Go, for Brad.
You walk down the road, my young and only son,
as if everything were there for your pleasure.
And you are right.
You pause to touch a tree and say, alligator juniper.
And again, you are right.
Why should I be surprised that you
have learned what I have forgotten,
and more than I ever knew?
My tall, bright son.
Nothing I can do now will alter the length of your shadow,
as you leave the desert which has been your home.
When you look back, the moon will set over your shoulder.
And the sun will rise each morning to meet you.
Turn, then, turn, and walk on.
Nothing I can give you will forestall
the moment of your death, nor determine how long,
how much you will suffer between this point of light
and that point of light.
You have learned to accept your life as if it were music,
played with great skill and would last forever.
And you are right again, my son, my only son.
It will last long enough.
[APPLAUSE]
He's a musician.
I think I should have told you that before.