Earlier today wrote a post, which, despite the elephants, approached Father’s Day from the sociological side (sort of). My true bent is more towards the poetic, so here’s another post (draft poem) in honor of the day.
My Father (baby birds)
When he sang,
which was only in church,
my father’s voice
was deep and cragged and
reminded me of a froggie
gone a’courting.
But this was baby birds.
It was not even a person
who had died.
It was not even a particularly noble dog,
though like all of its species, it was capable
of a self-debasing attachment that could seem
Arthurian.
But after the accident, the rush,
the sad blur home,
my father’s back faced me in my room
with a sound
of birds.
It silenced all gone wrong,
turned me back into a person
who could do things in the world.
ManicDDaily 
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