Father Hunting #7

 

 

What I had been looking for was the music man

who sits in the first chair

made of sand and driftwood

alive to the pause,

listening to his flesh grow old cell by cell

 

someone whose life had become a variation

of a quiet articulate theme

mocking the chorus of birds

that heralds the first note of dawn

 

someone who listens for his name

to play off the distant clouds

and drift over the sea towards home.

 

what I inherited

was a gathering of shells

and stones along the shore,

a measure of the height of waves

and a yearning for the undertow.

 

the journey from the cold black center of the sea

had ended on the curve of sky

where wave and earth collided

with the sound of a handshake

 

and in the eyes of a boy

the waving good-bye

from the rear of a caboose.

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