You taught yourself,
\nfather of paint, metal, gray eyes.
\nFather who saw the grain of poetry
\nin steel,
\nstood in oil,
\nendured the draft of factories.
\nAnd opened my eyes to pages,
\nto books with separate valleys,
\nto places that had no gravel,
\nno sound of horns,
\nclocks measuring the immeasurable.<\/p>\n
Father of poverty,
\nwho took the precious hours of his life
\nand gave them to me.
\nWho spoke of ghosts on the bay.
\nDucks flying in from the frost.
\nPicking carcasses with his mother
\nfor food,
\nreverent before their spoiled plumage,
\ngiving them back the spirit of their wings.<\/p>\n
Father, who cut ice when he was ten
\non the tundra\u2019s bay.
\nFather without a father,
\nwho salted his food like his life,
\nwith his heart\u2019s blood.
\nWho came in from the cold
\nand drank dark tea,
\nthen skated on the ice.<\/p>\n
Father who taught me to fill
\nmy silence with words,
\nmy eyes with color,
\nand hold with compassion
\nthe wounded bird,
\nthe dying animal,
\nand say goodbye
\nto the tender innocence of their lives,
\nlike his,
\nwithout meanness,
\nwith charity,
\nwith concern for the wounded world.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
You taught yourself, father of paint, metal, gray eyes. Father who saw the grain of poetry in steel, stood in oil, endured the draft of…<\/p>\n