The Home Builder

The Home Builder




My father is a dark fortress in the sun,
an oak tree, so many arms, every hand
facing heaven.

My father is the wind
with a name.

My father knew how to love
my mother perfectly.

My father was a gardener,
though he'll never say so.
And mother, with her green thumbs,
dark, dark hair and olive skin,
counted days of the sun
and seasons of her little plants.

She held each one up
and they named us,
even the first who didn't draw a breath.

My father will say he was a builder,
and built a house on the island.
He drew up the plans, hammered and
stood with my mother, smiling.

He placed the great windows
facing the waves,
and the setting sun made the air
rose-colored.

My father held my mother until she died.
And for seven years his heart lay broken.

Now as the air turns rose-colored,
and the waves begin to leave,
if you stand on the south side beach
where seagulls funnel upward,

you can see him walking over the stones.
We can walk along beside him
for a time, talking about

inconsequential things,
or slipping into silence
like a gentle room
with one lamp.

That's where we are now,
walking along beside him.





for my father
and all of our family