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Father's Day

The muscles in his arm

ripple

with each stoke of the paddle;

pulling us forward in time

to our beating hearts.

His words travel backward,

spinning in bubbled eddies of leaves and twigs.

Words drift in my ears;

the words of his father.

Reverent words,

painting a childhood I saw but never knew.

A boy bound to his father,

walking through the forest,

smelling the air,

watching the ground.

Father and son move as one;

eyes and hands searching for bamboo shoots.

Their shovel penetrates the ground

finding wisdom

beyond the concerns of the moment.

It is the wisdom of generations;

a father's love for his child,

binding ancestral dreams

to hearts now walking the earth.

His back and arms shift,

stroking,

to the other side of the canoe.

The flow of the river rolls off my paddle.

He calls out more memories

to lap against the familiar banks.

Friends come to play in the water,

buoyed by the glow in his voice.

Tin can boats,

with rubber band engines, race before us.

Frogs leap in frantic arcs

from the rush of eager hands

and splashing feet.

Laughter bathes me

in warm sunshine smiles

I remember...

these moments.

I remember...

forever.

I remember...

I'm holding a paddle,

pulling my heart through sweet water.

His father sits with us still;

talking, guiding our journey.

My father's voice

joins the chorus of fathers and sons

floating down this river.

We are singing our songs,

caring for children yet to come.

--john milliken

September, 1995