Our fathers, remote,
their art from heaven
“Hallow their names,” we were taught,
but to me they were hollow.
My father carried his baggage
in his hand. I watched it,
ducked when necessary
His pain unsharable
his aspirations unreachable
his pride contained
in a crystallized heart,
stuffed into a chamber,
alarmed against intruders
by fighting fists
and nervous flicking thumbs.
“God loves you like a father,”
I was taught, but I wanted
nothing to do with that father,
my father, the memories, the pain.
So we remained remote.
His dreams for me fading
into last year’s classroom art project,
my love for him aloof, almost hostile.
Today, though, I stand ready to offer my father,
our fathers, a new plan.
Come down from heaven, I offer,
past those ferocious thunder storms,
the raging winds, our pain-soaked tears.
I await you.
Let me love you now for the man
you tried to be, the father hidden
behind the clouds passed down
from your father’s father.
Come into my grateful heart.
Let our tears mix, become rainbows.
"With all the beauty surrounding me here above the Verde Valley, how could I not create more beauty?"