Dad

March 22nd is the 39th anniversary of my Dad’s death.

I wanted to share this poem with you all because I believe even the darkest times come back to the Light.  It’s a good time to remember that.

The Call

The deepest groan
sound ever tore from me
was on the day
my father died.

My brother’s voice
ran through the telephone
in liquid sorrow,
like a strong willow weeping,
holding roots down deep,
but spilling over tenderly
at fragile edges.

With his brave and wounded summons,
a primal broken cry
escaped from me
without my willing it.
It welled up, ebony and viscous,
from the center of my being,
molten, from a fissure
in the rock where I am rooted.
At that moment,
I am certain of it,
my father’s spirit separated
from the earth, or went
down invisible to join it.

When I finally came to him,
through a long journey,
a failing warmth from his blue skin
was all that met me,
and the blue memories waving
in a somnolent field
over his lifeless body,
that I picked, one by one,
like flowers in the silence.

blue flowers

That bouquet is preserved
in my soul as in a white
glass vase.  I bring it out
for blessing rites upon
things my father would have blessed
had he not died.

The benediction of these flowers
has fallen now for years
on all the lovely, growing
things in family, in self,
and slowly, over years, they’ve
turned from blue to all the colors
they once were in his heart,
like rainbows
or glass the deeper stained
by setting sun.

Some beautiful music: Mi Mancherai

Always thanking God for you, Dad.