He sits stunned
Stunned by life
I wish to say
Look—the clouds
Their bellies purple
In morning light
Outside, wild turkeys
Yearlings follow
Their mother and
The blue heron—
If only we went
To the river—
Would be fishing now
He sits, stunned
Stunned by life
And the late summer
Morning and its haze
Waits outside for
My old father
Who sits stunned
Stunned by life
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And the late summer
Morning and its haze
Waits outside for
My old father
Who sits stunned
Stunned by life
He sees not the turkeys or herons or clouds, but seems to be peering backwards to a time before me. Was he a fresh-scrubbed young soldier feeling taller than life? Was he a battle-scarred hero in the eyes of his wife? Or did he see himself as a young 'un, remembering the smooth pebbles beneath his muddy bare feet and the smell of his mama's cooking that was the most pleasant hub of his family's spare life?
If only I could visit inside of his head and see his clearest memories, far clearer than the chair upon which he sits now. If only I could, I would write what he saw and felt and tasted. I really would honor who he is and has been, through the farm fields and battlefields and birthings and joy. Those are things men still don't speak of, but I'd like to know. And commemorate who he was and now is. Because I know beyond all reason that his struggles and triumphs are as true as any others ever have been.
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