Three years ago today my dad passed away. Some days it's hard to believe how long it's been and how life changes in a short amount of time (for example, there are three more grandbabies in the family since then!) Even though it's easy to focus on the sadness associated with today, I generally try to think about all the good times and laughs that my dad provided in my life. Not only did my dad provide humor and jokes, he was like no other man I've ever met in his accomplishments and varied interests. Usually around this time of year, I like to read through some of his poetry books. It reminds me that we're left with the rare gift of his words that we'll be able to cherish forever. I think that makes us pretty lucky. Below is one of my favorite poems dad wrote and a picture that always make me think of it.
Three children rocking on a porch of Sundays,
A vacation wind quickening them
Into blue nudes. By the pact of midday sun,
They resemble the instant
Before lightening splits an elm in pieces.
No, thank you, they resemble nothing
But warming domes on the afternoon dreamless
As sand in their play shoes. They doubt
Any animal they ride could pretend
Beyond lessons of exquisite balance
Or sure pastimes of transport. They remain
Lotions pouring everywhere.
As if from time to time they sit at the center
Of running lights, in some boat, gathering
Smiles in a spray of unearthly attention,
This scene is curtained, kept moving
Finally by the beacon of a single train
Their father once saw rumble
Through a childhood far away. They are
Young sleepers on that train,
Sharing a preferred berth between stations,
Bearing down, gusting like a blast from air brakes,
Too soon to vanish.
A jay flies up to where they were just rocking.
It knows we are like them.
"Three Children"
by G.E. Murray
A vacation wind quickening them
Into blue nudes. By the pact of midday sun,
They resemble the instant
Before lightening splits an elm in pieces.
No, thank you, they resemble nothing
But warming domes on the afternoon dreamless
As sand in their play shoes. They doubt
Any animal they ride could pretend
Beyond lessons of exquisite balance
Or sure pastimes of transport. They remain
Lotions pouring everywhere.
As if from time to time they sit at the center
Of running lights, in some boat, gathering
Smiles in a spray of unearthly attention,
This scene is curtained, kept moving
Finally by the beacon of a single train
Their father once saw rumble
Through a childhood far away. They are
Young sleepers on that train,
Sharing a preferred berth between stations,
Bearing down, gusting like a blast from air brakes,
Too soon to vanish.
A jay flies up to where they were just rocking.
It knows we are like them.
No comments:
Post a Comment