WEBVTT

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My father is a real
important man to me,

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and I wanted to read
some poems about him.

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This is called "My
Father's Feet."

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"It would begin in the early
morning on any given day.

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His feet would hit the floor
with such a definite purpose

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even though his day's routine
had not yet been calculated.

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His thump echoing crossing
closet space and bodies.

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We rose as if that
sound started our day.

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The bugles of morning
my father's feet,

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rise children and have
purpose, making our thumps

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heard, smaller feet hitting
cold pine, the impact forcing

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our day upon us.

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It was this way every day.

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There were three pairs of
boots standing at attention

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in the corner of his room.

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On Sunday morning he would
slip into his spit polished,

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hand tooled Mexican
leather boots.

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These were his favorite.

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Although he prized his practical
hunting lace-ups methodically

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woven together by
cowhide cut in strips,

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these were never to be mistaken
for the ordinary lesser

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polish workday dog kickers.

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His children were well
familiar with each set

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of boots, their importance and
occasion each pair was worn.

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Time has passed.

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My father's feet gnarled
by an untimely stroke.

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His arch has fallen making
the usual shifting of weight

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from one foot to the
next painful and awkward.

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Shu nave ung din hee.

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Oh, my feet hurt.

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He says this as I kneel
cupping one foot at a time,

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kneading lifeless muscles as
if to beg them back to life.

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I listen to the distance
he now travels only

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by memory, coating
his feet with lotion,

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hoping to retard the
atrophy developed

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by illness and inactivity.

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Ha wa, ha wa,
momentarily comforted,

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his words determined
my hand pressure,

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for I only wish to heal him.

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I sit by his bed noticing
from across the room

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the boots he once wore still
at attention unnoticed, unworn,

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left to collect dust.

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It's then I remember the
early call of morning

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on any given day.

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His feet would hit the floor
with such a definite purpose."

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"Oe Khee Ung."

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"Ta da oe

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khee ung Kung ye ung meng.

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Father, get ready.

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You have far to travel.

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Keep your gaze steady beyond
starched white sheets tucked

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neatly by attentive nurses,
past these ordinary, colorless,

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sterile walls that no
longer contain you,

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unhooking your IV
when night signals,

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releasing yourself to stand
straight and strong once again.

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Oe khee ung Kung ye ung meng.

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Ta Povi waits by the
canyon rim, inviting

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you to walk with him past the
fields you both planted seasons

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ago.

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Toward Kwheng sa po,
near the clearing

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where sparrow's nest
and autumn leaves

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gather to bed doe and fawn.

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Ta Povi calls from the
aspen near the meadow

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by your mother's breast, with
ceremony rain clouds welcoming

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you, healing shadows
erasing your pain.

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Oe khee ung, get ready to
cross into the canyon's rim,

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making a place for
yourself near the sagebrush

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along the rough trails where
you have always been at home.

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And in time, it will be
you calling me, inviting me

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toward the canyon's
rim near the road

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we carved above the
timberline many winters ago.

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Oe khee ung."

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