My Father
in the woods trimmed away by human hands
he stands, arms outstretched,
waiting for his climbing,
wide-eyed daughters.
He sways in the summer wind,
adrift in the sleepy heat of mid-day
when freckles appear in patterns
like bark upon his pale skin.
At the end of the day
the girls come to him,
with problems only children have,
and he cradles them in the shadows
cast by his crooked limbs.
He tells them stories
about when he was younger,
and stood ankle-deep in soil,
feeling the age of the earth
through the balls of his feet.
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