Proudly claiming this tall tree,
swaying in its giddy height,
but unhappy in his shade.
I’m still struggling to keep

up with my father’s shadow.
His arm heaping concrete along
the mountain chains, raking great
slips of gravel off crumbling

hills. His shovel swallowing beaches
of sand. His tendon’d arms
and great leathered hands
remolding this earth into God’s

own country, hidden in the
folds of the pacific’s emerald
gown. Now we’re left here
waiting by the grey stumps,

gathering sticks for the small
fires. Feeling those cold world
winds, looking up and trying
to re-stitch this sacred canopy.

Advertisement