A Poem Written on Father’s Day
They humor me, I suppose.
My family I mean.
When I drag them out into the woods for a hike
Everyone goes, but
They humor me.
It’s not something they like.
Covered in mud
Hopping from stump to rock,
wiping away perspiration.
Dutifully, they trudge along,
Engaging in stock conversation,
Stopping for selfies,
Or, griping at the dogs…
“Stop pulling!”
But I don’t think they love it,
Not like I do.
They don’t feel the history that the trees have seen.
A hundred years? Two hundred? three?
Who else has passed this way?
Leaned on this tree?
Pulled back the veil?
Looked toward the future
with worry and fear?
I see the ghosts. I hear their voices
And I breathe them in.
Slow and deep,
Like a meditation,
I exhale.
One thousand-one, one thousand-two…
Because, it’s my trail now.
Mine and my kin,
Who don’t love being here,
Not like I do.
But, they humor me.