I can't claim the father of my blood,
so far removed has he always been.
Nor the one of my childhood,
I gave up regards to him long ago.
And sometimes I'm not sure if I've
a "Father" of that type, either.
Maybe the matrilineal lines run deeper
in me, on the surface at least.
Still, I'd like to make a claim for
my parentage, to whatever degree,
placing it among the less
What of summer, when the brilliant heat
lies a protective cloak over my shoulders?
And if I can't make it up to see the day,
then my patrimony surely lies in the stars at night,
shining down in all their wisdom, glory, pride.
They know my accomplishments and light my way
encouragement beaming with every ray.
And can't you see the pater in the snow,
as it falls, blanketing, during a blizzard?
Shrouding me from the world around me,
falling blissfully from the clouds,
The lakes, rivers, creeks, that I frequent,
their warm waters, can't you see the reality
of their embrace, the absolution in their
tender ripples, stemming from my filial touch?
The caress of the wind in the fall,
cool but not quite chilly, just as distant as the
stand-offish father, uncomfortable in his emotion,
but assured in his love, devotion.
I have my fathers, my grandfathers,
all of the guidance I need in my life.
They may seem obscure, but in the end
they stem out of me, my interpretation,
my appreciation, for and of them.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Let me take my inspiration from where I will,
and leave convention to the masses.