A String In The Air
Snowy early morning, twisting
back. Road dark
drives between evergreen
valleys, reciting American canons.
Kitchen table portraits of index card birds,
my hands are hers
but they hold your conviction.
Coat and tie, Sundays, too,
in the pew, silent and tall.
Sipping from cups
too small for your hand.
That photograph of you, blue-green
bathrobe, sleeping boyish, beside
my dough-cheeked, hot, fat face.
Now, your beard, a Viking forest of firm,
full of the stories of children.
There are days in a year,
and paper cranes in a day. Colorful,
strung, and we, the babes
swinging from wings,
quietly unfold these memories.
(For my father, on his 50th birthday).