Song for the father

Old man, your hands are fragile now
tired from picking through thorns
in search of roses

When you were left here, sitting in
darkness, there were leaves blown in
rustled circles, tumbling as dust or
smoke or fading reverie

Who did you become, after all?
Child of desert scrub and horses,
inheritor of every sin that came before you

I see you now, as a young man,
walking up a fierce hill in dusty boots,
the sun looking the other way
and tears in your eyes too scared to fall

The land stretched before you, waiting
for you to hear its voice, the clouds
leaning low to wrap you in their comfort

That was me in those tears you couldn't share,
sprung in pieces from your footsteps

a clown for your laughter,
a prince for your nobility,
a priest for every holiness you
pined for and promised yourself

What will the wind make of me
when it has had its way with you?

Henry Rael
7.31.00