My Father's House

Cherry

By Silver Spun Sand

Thu, 24 Sep 2015
  • 3179 reads
6 comments
 
The place is ablaze with trees
torched by autumn’s epiphany;
along the road from the house
once I called home – a row
of dormered bungalows.
 
By the window the image
of my father stands in frayed,
green corduroys, backlit
by the flickering light
of widowhood...
 
He was both born and died here.
Never did a drop of liquor
ever touch his lips; used to say
he didn’t like it, as simple
as that
 
he knew what he liked alright
the simple life, a house,
two kids and a dog, oh, and a wife;
a postage stamp sized lawn
and an acacia tree
 
with lemon flowers in the spring
and I’ll drink a toast to that, anytime 
as I put my feet up on a stool, watch
my wide screen TV – the earth
grown very small
 
reigned in by the world-wide web
a network of connectivity
joining each to each.
 
A far cry from when he was a child;
people stayed put.  Families 
stuck together, only now I’ve come
full circle.
 
I will still hold my mother’s name
and his, for respectabilities sake, dear,
mow the lawn, prune the tree, 
and the wine in my glass –
barely breathe.
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Comments

Submitted by celticman on

interesting, I was just thinking about something similiar (but different). How each generation weighs time. Trees by their weight of leaves offers the obivious analogy, are we so different? 

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

'Whoever has learned how to listen to trees, no longer wants to be a tree.  He wants to be nothing, except what he is.  That is home.  That is happiness.'

Thanks for sharing that wisdom of yours.

 

 

Submitted by Bee on

A poem ablaze!

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

As - your lovely comment, Beesmiley  Appreciated.

Tina

 

Submitted by loquaciousicity on

Poignant... but beautiful (as usual smiley)

Terry

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thanks, Terry.  Appreciatedsmiley

Tina