From a Father, From a Son
Patient clasps of hands, a master’s apprentice fumbling
slimy worms in swirling streams,
brook trout laughing at my folly.
Atop of your back, sun soothing heavy eyelids stuffed like cottonballs,
while the slow steady cadence of slumbering trails burst colors
of orange, yellow, red explosions of fall.
You taught me how to wrestle with foxtails, exhaling wishes from dandelions:
"pay careful attention to the paintbrush"
Nature’s way of flaming the death of summer’s call.
My heart racing as we watched mother doe,
gentle, nibble the tear-soaked tips of grass.
Your inner compass never forgetting home,
dizziness as we gazed heavenward at the ancient crowns
reaching the pearlescent skies.
You taught me mossy beards, north slope, fir,
shelter from the cold, the best branch for a fire, instructions for a son.
Silence forging sacred breath, your hands crackled like autumn leaves,
draped in mine, melting the embedded calluses of fragility,
eyes turned grey calling the paint brush of fall.
Still just a child secured upon your back,
peanut butter fingerprints pressing in time,
"daddy, what if I cannot find home"
looking down with saucer-wide eyes,
I can still hear your voice:
"be still, wait, I will always find you."
Copyright © Jason Johnson | Year Posted 2008
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