My father turned 80 on April 6th. Here is a poem I wrote for him:
When a man looks to judge the successes of his life, He looks to the things he has gathered about him; He looks to the things he calls his own; He looks to the things he has created. He looks around and he sees, He has planted the seeds Of his posterity, Of his legacy, Of himself: His children, His grand-children, His great-grand-children. And in their lives, He has built generations where He sees his eyes and dimples in some He sees his mannerisms, hears his laugh in others He sees himself stretching grandly on into the future He sees his life is good; he sees he has done good work. When a man looks to take his measure, He sees he is loved.
Dedicated to my father, a man whose family is everything to him, on his 80th birthday.
The shell cracked in two places as the pressure increased from the inside out. I couldn’t tell what might emerge although I expected a chicken. I may have mentioned once or twice before that things rarely worked the way I intend. I think I need to give up planning and go back to winging it.