My father is a real important man to me,
and I wanted to read some poems about him.
This is called "My Father's Feet."
"It would begin in the early morning on any given day.
His feet would hit the floor with such a definite purpose
even though his day's routine had not yet been calculated.
His thump echoing crossing closet space and bodies.
We rose as if that sound started our day.
The bugles of morning my father's feet,
rise children and have purpose, making our thumps
heard, smaller feet hitting cold pine, the impact forcing
our day upon us.
It was this way every day.
There were three pairs of boots standing at attention
in the corner of his room.
On Sunday morning he would slip into his spit polished,
hand tooled Mexican leather boots.
These were his favorite.
Although he prized his practical hunting lace-ups methodically
woven together by cowhide cut in strips,
these were never to be mistaken for the ordinary lesser
polish workday dog kickers.
His children were well familiar with each set
of boots, their importance and occasion each pair was worn.
Time has passed.
My father's feet gnarled by an untimely stroke.
His arch has fallen making the usual shifting of weight
from one foot to the next painful and awkward.
Shu nave ung din hee.
Oh, my feet hurt.
He says this as I kneel cupping one foot at a time,
kneading lifeless muscles as if to beg them back to life.
I listen to the distance he now travels only
by memory, coating his feet with lotion,
hoping to retard the atrophy developed
by illness and inactivity.
Ha wa, ha wa, momentarily comforted,
his words determined my hand pressure,
for I only wish to heal him.
I sit by his bed noticing from across the room
the boots he once wore still at attention unnoticed, unworn,
left to collect dust.
It's then I remember the early call of morning
on any given day.
His feet would hit the floor with such a definite purpose."
"Oe Khee Ung."
"Ta da oe
khee ung Kung ye ung meng.
Father, get ready.
You have far to travel.
Keep your gaze steady beyond starched white sheets tucked
neatly by attentive nurses, past these ordinary, colorless,
sterile walls that no longer contain you,
unhooking your IV when night signals,
releasing yourself to stand straight and strong once again.
Oe khee ung Kung ye ung meng.
Ta Povi waits by the canyon rim, inviting
you to walk with him past the fields you both planted seasons
ago.
Toward Kwheng sa po, near the clearing
where sparrow's nest and autumn leaves
gather to bed doe and fawn.
Ta Povi calls from the aspen near the meadow
by your mother's breast, with ceremony rain clouds welcoming
you, healing shadows erasing your pain.
Oe khee ung, get ready to cross into the canyon's rim,
making a place for yourself near the sagebrush
along the rough trails where you have always been at home.
And in time, it will be you calling me, inviting me
toward the canyon's rim near the road
we carved above the timberline many winters ago.
Oe khee ung."