Dad

Yesterday afternoon I was one part of a triad of poets reading at Indy Reads Books (Massachusetts Ave., Indianapolis).  The proceeds of the book sales went to adult literacy programs and I was honored to be included in the reading.

One poem I did not read was this one . . . a childhood memory with my father.  The poem is in my collection of poems, Where in the World We Meet (Chatter House Press). 






The Blessing

I remember the day my father died.
This was also the day I was born.
We were standing in a field
Freshly turned and planted,
A field that had worn our hands
Rough with clods, the scent
Of damp earth under our feet.
And my father did not shelter me
From the scorching heat,
He did not condescend
Or offer me rest from the labor.
Plodding through mud, he said,
"This is the way it is.  This will be your life."
That afternoon, my father gave
His life for me out of his own
Hardship and weariness.
And when he placed his hand on my head
And tousled my hair,
I received his blessing and felt
His hope transcend to me.
And I was born.

The crows were witnesses.