One Father’s Perspective On Having A Child

I had a friend who told me that he never wanted to have a child, because then he wouldn’t get to be the child. I understand that choice, but for me the situation was very different: I had been given so much, I wanted a family I could give to, only to find they gave me far more than I could ever give them.

A Country Autumn – 8

Oh, my child,
We played out on these hills
When you were just girl, and then
The season changed, and you were grown:
The life you wanted needing time
And space and countless years of work
For you to reach.

I walk this path,
And hear two younger voices, mine
And tiny yours; but know that all that grows
Is for a season only, then transforms:
In your case into all
I could have hoped.

There is, there can be
No love like
The love I have for you,
A father for his daughter:
Strong as the earth
Through the glories of changing seasons;
Constant as time,
Ever-present even though you be unaware.

Oh, my child-adult,
We played out on these hills
When you were just a girl, and I
Was closer to the start than finish line,
But you are still my joy,

And I could not be prouder

Than I am

A Country Autumn – 5

Crops, like children, do not grow
The same from year to year;
We do our best, but even so,
We watch each one in fear

For all those things that may go wrong:
From slower growth, or faster —
The fear that which we’ve loved so long
Will fall upon disaster —

Yet both are raised because of love:
Of mind, and heart, and soul —
With help that’s often sought above
For all we can’t

Control

The Winter Stars Came Out That Night

The winter stars came out that night
To smile on us, and sing —
We watched our breath in clouds like smoke,
Our faces coloring —

We sang our carols in the snow,
And glided towards the dawn,
December in our hearts, we watched
Until the stars were gone.

We went back with our families,
Each one to different lives;
That village now, a different place.
But this one thing survives —

A memory like yesterday,
And I can guarantee it:
The winter stars came out that night
And we were there

To see it

The Quilt of Human Memory

I still remember my grandmother,
Although I saw her, maybe seven times,
Past the age of two.

And maybe she remembered hers,
Or a grandfather,
And so on back.

The quilt of human memory
Is connected, but not
Linear: we remember those
Who remember those others
Who remember those still others.

It has been said
That you die a second time,
The day the last person who remembered you dies.
But I don’t think that’s right,
Because someone still remembers
That person.

We’re connected, but different:
Separated in time, by other connections,
Not directly,
But still —
It’s a beautiful
Crazy
Type

Of connection

hospice.

i only know what i have known:
the day comes there is no avail.
the great translation’s yet to be,
the moorings disconnected —

  i was her son before all other things,
  a child of music, poetry, and teeth;
  the voice so shaky now in my head sings,
  the lyrics and the verses, her bequeath —

i see the spirit’s mostly flown.
disease can make a home a jail,
and simple things a misery,
until the path’s elected

  to turn herself into a summer flower,
  to live within the heat, and know the price:
  a hospice choice, the last one of her power,
  before the coming of the dark

  and ice