Father
These hands that raised me
Are old and imperfect
Much like the flaws in the wood
Of many a mighty tree
In its branches high
Or on shoulders broad
With eye of buoyant adolescence
I could see the root of me
And when I laid bare
With promise of bloom
My Father with rake and heap
Stood ready at the cultivation
As I age in his wisdom
I look to the arbor
And drift under its cover
Proud in its agnation
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