(for my dad
on father’s day)
i made it on sourdough
lightly toasted with butter
brewed the tea in an empty house
east light slanting through windows
spilling crossways to the grain
of the table so old now
years of hard growth
stands in ridges
between the softness of spring wood
long worn away.
knots wait like islands in synoptic flow
that fingers have traced through time.
i take a bite
six years slip away
no rush of cold air
or strange flashing lights
i just chewed and swallowed
and he was there
with me at the table
light so much just so
sketching plans – teasing
arguing about north
and which way the road runs.
so i was thinking, i would say…
breakfasts were always project meetings
pens in hand
sandwiches and tea
turning wild dreaming
into hammer and wood and nails
paths and ponds and gateways
scraps of paper that have grown
into garden and farm without him.
because the world was turning faster
and there was still so much to do.