The Fatherly Season
       

From a distance, I watch my father raking,
belt bent beneath the weight of his gut,
wingtips he hits me with matting tracks in damp
grass, trip-spring mouth cursing twigs that snare
the rake. Sometimes, my father sweeps leaves for me,
and I dash across the lawn: streak oflnjun braids
and feathers, airplane speeding on a runway,
cannonball, kangaroo, bursting russet-red and gold. Careful
never to dart too close. Careful never to laugh too loud.
So in love—with him, the crisp air, with rare hours
his steely words descending light as leaves.

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Copyright © 2017 Lindsey Royce All rights reserved
from Bare Honds
Turning Point
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission