and, despite his wasted buried fate,
it was to me that all his dreams were passed;
before I understood, they tried to last,
but now I understand his life too late.
Instead of dreams, my father’s life lived through
his garden. Years of afternoons he spent
turning and weeding, once he earned the rent;
and God he worked till countless flowers grew.
When made to help I’d scream and try to run.
He’d point to the seeds, soil - Now try to see
the soul and spirit; holding, teaching me,
without the faith, no flowers grow, my son.
At planting season, sweating, he would say
no more, just stand, then crouch and then not stand
until each seed was gifted to the land -
the dust was angel skin, the earth his clay.
He could have been an athlete, teacher or
a farmer, or a florist at least.
Perhaps some kind of poet, or a priest.
He should have been a sculptor, builder, more.
The day he died I couldn’t be with him.
But years later his garden had me stand,
then crouch, and then not stand, to hold a seed
and hold the soil, as I’d have held his hand.