Fathers and Sons

He’s everywhere I go, there

in the shadows or over my shoulder,

or in plain view, just sitting, rocking

on the porch, quiet and watchful,

his hands, creased and cracked, still on his lap,

or supporting his head, nodding off.

I try to avoid him, wherever he is,

in his sitting, watching, or ambling about,

slow, his head down, looking, stopping

to pick up a small stone or a lost screw,

tossing it aside at last to take up

this young child’s hand into his own broad palm,

his hands used to hard work, honest labor,

silently leading him; and now, years since his passing,

I see him at a table, seated, his Bible spread

out and open, marked and smudged,

his eyes following a passage of King James’ language

to its end, and, his fingers entwined,

he bows his head, a brief prayer before rising,

a prayer for me, perhaps, unable to rise

to his stature, even today, nor escape him

in the shadows over my shoulder,

quiet and watchful, patient.