Whenever they come home
My kids leave with another book.
Over the years
The spaces on my bookshelf
Have widened with wisdom.
That’s wisdom:
Not what you own,
What you give away.
Whenever they come home
My kids leave with another book.
Over the years
The spaces on my bookshelf
Have widened with wisdom.
That’s wisdom:
Not what you own,
What you give away.
I could fish for hours,
Lose myself in a marsh
Carried by giant carp,
A dragonfly hook its shadow on my eye
And guide me back to my surprised self.
Fishing in silence beside my father,
I would glance up at him,
Catching the fishes that got away,
Years there lost in him,
A sadness inseparable from living.
I caught once, his fish reflection,
Sinking below the surface.
Cutting hair at the nursing home,
My father was afraid of growing old.
The old have so few hairs
And to shave a lonely face can break your heart:
You never shave the same face twice.
Alone and sick, sickness a blessing,
There were some old people, my father said,
No one ever visited, only the barber.