My father is the earth

    dark, deep, rich soil
    soil tilled and turned
    from the sunrise
    to the sunset
    sometimes in sweat
    sometimes in blood
    from the day born from it
    to the day returned to it.

My father is the earth.

My father is the root

    of the mahogany, the ebony, the oak
    drinking heavily of
    the sweet rain of the clouds
    the salt rain of the tears
    drenched deep in the soil
    of my fathers before them

My father is the root.

My father is the trunk

    rough on the outside
    sometimes ripped by nature
    sometimes stripped by man
    but in the story of each ring
    hidden deep inside
    is the smooth beauty
    known only by those
    born of him

My father is the trunk.

My father is the limb

    raised forward in the wind
    raised forward in the rain
    raised forward in the snow
    raised forward to the sun
    because you can’t teach
    fathers to look forward
    by having fathers
    looking back

My father is the limb.

My father is the branch

    the extensions of faith
    the stretch of hope
    the breadth of a promise
    made long ago

My father is the branch.

I am the twig

    the latest incarnation
    of that promise deferred
    planted deep of the earth
    rooted of the past
    trunked on to the present
    out on a limb
    branched to the sun
    and if I seem to live
    off my fathers before me
    it is not to deprive
    my fathers give willing
    knowing I must survive
    for it is their dreams
    that are my dreams
    coursing through my veins

and in that I am the twig

  the branch
  the limb
  the trunk
  the root
  the earth

and in that I am my father.

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Submitted to

Theme Thursday
Thursday, August 11, 2011 – Tree