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For My Father

By Kristen John / June 16, 1995

I think we're both edged with sky,

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Daddy and I.

We sometimes float above the literal,

Wearing daydreams,

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

Finding flowers!)

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.

We understand....