Fathers Day 2003
My father was more before I was born.
His character had formed out of the
flat Illinois land;
farmed fields
of wheat, beans, and corn.
My father grew into suits,
his young hair thickened,
blackened like his
dark coffee brewing,
and a solid gold band
hugged his finger with hope.
My father met his daughters
in different seasons.
One, in between the rain of
summer storms, when the grass
is freshly cut
and the flowerbeds swell.
the Other,
when the harvest moon hung
above trees cluttered bright orange
and red
(and my father grew his own trees
in our names).
Were there stronger hands
in the world than his,
moving between frets
as he sang us to sleep?
Was there a more generous heart than his
steadily beating underneath a crisp,
white, button-down?
Because my father gave every Sunday;
gently then showing me
how to stack ten penny piles
while he counted the dry, dirty bills
from the offering plates.
And when my father didn't know
what to say
he said nothing
but loved me like a prayer
with arms
wrapped around my name.
