Among the Trees
I have always felt at home when I would stand among the trees.
Perhaps because when I was small, I only looked at knees.
The real folks were above me, just like being in the wood,
I hear the chattering and the calls. I’d answer if I could.
My father was a tall man, of tanned and rugged face,
And I never had a fear at all when I was at my place,
Standing in the shade of him, and leaning with my hand,
And anything he stood for always helped me make my stand.
He spoke with quiet wisdom with a voice that could shake walls,
And responded every chance he had to any neighbor’s calls.
My father had the grace and strength, and bearing of an oak,
We didn’t have much money but that man could not be broke.
He knew he had a job to do, and did it with a smile,
And didn’t mind the resting at the ending of the mile.
For every daily journey had a place to stop and say,
I think I’ve done the best I could, I’m finished for today.
He was connected to the world, in ways that I am not.
With patience and persistence, and some skills that I’ve forgot,
He incremented victory in little, measured ways,
That satisfied his need for moving forward with his days.
He could have used ten lifetimes to advance his causes dear,
His patience would have seen him through the work he had down here.
He should have tried to get a lot more people for the task,
And they probably would have done it if he only thought to ask.
But he perceived it as his own, the row he had to hoe,
And he bent into the grind each day with little for to show,
For all his noble effort that he was even there at all.
The world he had to change was big, and he was rather small.
But he was big enough to me, I saw the marks he made,
And knew he could have won the game if only he had stayed.
One man alone can’t straighten out the world the way it’s bent.
But he can help to clear a path to show the way he went.
And others can then follow on, and do their work in turn.
Perhaps there will be some who can help others try to learn;
The good things that a man attempts don’t end when he must wane,
But only when we lose the golden dreams he hoped to gain.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . 4/16/2004 and 7/7/2004
© 2004