Ladies In 50 Years Girdles

the hands of my father when I was little I


Blog Post originally published in November 2009, now reissued and enriched.

These hands have planted planted dug picked kneaded
They picked the mushrooms, cooked them,
These hands have hunted fished rowed wrote constructed
They loved his brothers, his sister, mother,
This has taken much they hit for more, fail to wipe
and more tears.
I touched those hands on a hospital bed,
I have drawn the strength to live, love and laughter.

Dad, this poem, you do not know.

Words that irrigate are proof of the love I bear you.
A sort of bulwark against the disease that j'érige that ruin your.
What I'll tell you seem very naive, coming from me, almost a young healthy man, who does not know, like you, in the flesh in his soul, suffering, deprivation of capabilities of yesteryear ...

But I will say this with love:

You're alive, you're in front, with the heart a woman two children, three beautiful angels are your granddaughters, a garden than you can certainly shape not entirely as you wish but you reserve its bursts of surprises, happiness. You have to hand these chickadees, robins and goldfinches, that you had watched the corner of my eye, this cat that you tame and which runs to approach your fruit trees asleep. This garden or another. These ingredients waiting to rub your creativity, your talent as a cook.
the millions of moments that awaken your love life and your inner child.

Happy Birthday, Dad.