For My Father
I think we're both edged with sky,
Daddy and I.
We sometimes float above the literal,
Getting lost on the streets of our own town;
Feet won't reach the ground.
And yet the snow is danced upon:
Two twisting trails;
(Perhaps the tracks of dashing clowns
Beneath the white blanket of wintry words
Our seeding silence grows.
My roots have to travel deep
To meet with his
In the heart's soft underground.