4-24-2014

I know that in some measure
my boys are kept too far from
who I am.

They sleep
in their unembarrassed ways -

their breathings recalling
in me my own father;
The ways he had no father.

The way the wind rushes,
and breathes

along the usuals,

and the knotted fists of
east
pile up at the ends of west.

They love the singing of branch ends
in tall maples.

The wind.

The purple night.