Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dads, poetry, work on 01/29/2012|
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For My Father
I have watched him work, my Father,
His long shadow in the driveway is as determined
As it is on the forest path leading to the headwaters
Of the Cumberland River.
His eyes fearsome with task, his back straight and
Strong, his jaw always set to smile
Always capable of drawing back.
As a child I believed it was him that instructed
The skies in their lessons of thunder, as he strode
Through the eastern Kentucky mountains and was
Recognized by the ghosts of fallen warriors as one of
The brave, as one of their own who must travel the many
Continents of the heart, and sometimes alone, be bound by
Fevers and by suffrage to strange crossroads.
I have seen him sleep, my Father, the untroubled sleep of
Men who’ve known only two times of day and maybe six
Hours of sleep at home. Seen him sleep also the sleep of
Troubled men who keep the frayed and thinning dreams
Of their sons harbored at home.
I dream of him, my Father, and the places from which we came,
Crawling in mines, in-under trains, now even air planes.
Every fold in the work-boot, every crease in the brow is
Testament to how the earth moves with us, how we struggle
Will all the love we have to get our arms around, and the
Names of our Mothers, and the names of our sisters are words
We can whisper for the strength of their sound.
I have listened to him, my Father, who does much telling
Without saying a word, who has given two Heaven’s worth of
Love without making a sound, save for the quiet rustlings of
The wings in his shoulders.
Ó2012 Sunontiepost*
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