I wrote this poem years ago. When my son, Matt, was a little boy, I would catch glimpses of my own father in my son. I see it now, too, in both my boys grown to men, and in my grandbabies. Something that remains, I suppose. It was a comfort in the years after my dad passed away. It still is.
Papa Dancing
He is in your eyes, my child--
sapphire pools wide with wonder
reflecting the sun--a thousand fleeting torches
dancing
as he must have danced in the days before
a you or a me.
Arms reaching to embrace each diminutive
ray filtering through the branches--
to weave forever into ebony
to sparkle again
in your eyes.
He is in your eyes, my child--
sapphire pools wide with wonder
reflecting the sun--a thousand fleeting torches
dancing
as he must have danced in the days before
a you or a me.
Arms reaching to embrace each diminutive
ray filtering through the branches--
to weave forever into ebony
to sparkle again
in your eyes.
RSS Feed
