on fatherhood

"on fatherhood"

have we spoke about death and dying?

the subject speaks the way autumn leaves fall-

cold and inviting. i notice our child

run through our house

and i shudder as autumn cools

around my feet and hands.

my son the fortune teller: he reads my hands

blue eyes locked to my grey, dying

eyes. my heart beats and my oatmeal cools

i look to the window as he traces my palm, "fall" i note,

& shudder. i house

my fear as i turn to my child:

"thomas, my son, my child

my fate isn't marked in the lines of my hands

nor is my worth represented by our house.

i have more to do than be afraid dying."

my hands fall

& there is silence, ice cools

my heart. gaia's third season cools

the earth, before nature creates its fourth child-

December's white terror. after the orange and yellow fall

leaves are collected by my son's hands

as a means to protect what has been so busy dying.

his tiny relics crumble on the floors of our house

thomas craves to house

something deeper than Earth's yearly cools.

he claims that i am dying

i tell him, "my child, my child,

you have read my hands.

but it takes more than breeze to make your father fall."

though how can i tell him when i may fall?

i gave him and my wife a house

that i worked for with my worn, weathered hands

and then my alarm cools,

i remember he is only a child

and i tell myself that dying

does not mean to fall, but to let the soul cool.

i built my house & gave my child

the proper hands & the proper notion of dying.