Thinking of My Father

my father has eyes
like the ocean.
like the ocean
in my eyes, but lighter.
our eyes look
the same in shape,
color, happiness…
but we see nothing
in the same hue.
except, perhaps
we do.

he looks at me
and sees a girl.
a straight white line.
a soft cheek.
small hand.
a new heart.
a simple mind.
and yet,
a broken light, an
unfinished sentance,
a malnourished complexity.

i look at him and see strength.
a tower of simplicity.
an infinity of knowledge.
a man bursting with emotion–
alway at the surface and yet,
nearly always
calmed, quite, easy.

what we see is irrelevant.
what we feel, beyond sight–
the calmness, the center
of the ocean–
defines us.
being at home amist waves.
in the eye of hurricanes.
a father, a daughter;
remembering life.
loving with each
cell of creation.


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