my father spoke
of winters
deeper than the seine –
colder than pneumonia
in the spring
they spoke of rushing waters
mountains rubbed away
of moments without words
or want
for anything

more than this
a tenderness
would sit beneath my skin
aligned with stars
another fate to keep
of sacred hallelujahs
only whispers would contain
of mornings clear
beyond the need
for sleep

my father dreamed
and i believed
a path would open wide
where hurts could mend
brokenness
could heal
forgotten how
the weeds were crowded
here was i to find
what remains for death
when only love
is real

. . .