... look at our tiny house,
son, the white dot of your mother waving.
I will be your father
Someday, and the strings
Will hang loose from our clothing.
Our life will grow as threadbare with long
Journeys as the scraggly wisps of my white beard,
And your gray hair's dispersing strains
Will run into rivulets, like the departed streams
Of our song. Father, I remember mists
Like mountain crags, and eyes
As knowing as the sky, peaks
Of jutting crystal, sharp as ice,
That came to represent the world.
When I left your house, hands
Were still distant: your breath was the tide
That carried me into the still distance
And the world's tough hide. Only now
I see how weak we were, like saplings
Pushing themselves into the thin air
Of the mountain, tender and green
Among the few, harsh, spiny twigs
And an irascible wind.
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