I guess that is where I got it from.
What a father teaches
My father spoke to me
of birds.
Washing dinner dishes
he would talk
of how they cared for me
when I was young.
I remember the sound of his voice
and the water
stirring in the sink.
The ruffle of suds oozing from
his cloth
as he squeezed it out.
Remember that Chinaberry tree?
And all those jays?
He said.
How they cared for you
so high.
Like you were one of their own.
He said.
In the treetops. You loved
peanuts.
Just like a blue jay.
That was the year your mother
left for Tulsa
with that shoe man
she couldn’t stand.
Must have finally tried him on;
liked the fit.
When he was done, we’d sit
on the porch
with his beer and watch the darkness
disappear.
Each year on Father’s Day I rise
early,
take a pocketful of peanuts
to the stump of a tree I never climbed
and spread them
for all to share.
After opening a beer, I sit
motionless, in the shade
listening
for my father’s voice to fill
the air.
