WEBVTT

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"My Father's Song."

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Wanting to say things, I
miss my father tonight.

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His voice, the slight catch,
the depth from his thin chest,

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the tremble of
emotion in something

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he has just said to
his son, his song.

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We planted corn one spring at
Acu, we planted several times.

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But this one particular time,
I remember the soft damp sand

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in my hand.

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My father had
stopped at one point

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to show me an overturned furrow.

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The plowshare had
unearthed the burrow nest

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of a mouse in the
soft moist sand.

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Very gently he scooped
tiny pink animals

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into the palm of his hand
and told me to touch them.

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We took them to the
edge of the field

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and put them in the shade
of a sand moist cloth.

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I remember the very softness
of cool and warm sand

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and tiny alive mice, and my
father saying things, his song.

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