Who has a father anymore? My own, your own, the moving so reliable and loved
and author of so many fragments that instill full symphonies of finance, reason and
apportioned nationality. How can instinct join another instinct perfectly? Glass we
bother to have polished, furnish glimmer to the real. How spirit wants to glide onto its
edges. I miss him so. Who knew my humor, formed it, proxied perspicacity until it
caught. What I would give for his contagion of perfection, all its costs. I watch another
father's insufficiency. I long for perfect anchor. Perfect warmth in hands that live their
kindness, work their wills, place themselves upon another's hand, and turn to
generosity. This picture in the flesh, capacity to know sensory beauty in the garden,
at the market, in full voice. A harsh insistence upon all we are and can become,
his mastery. His word, "Who would test me?"
Academic prowess, sparse furnishings of spiritual depth, full knowing of specifics
that make strategy a poem
Sheila E. Murphy
No comments:
Post a Comment