My Father’s Son

"Look to the fields
	of withered grass,
	bent with wind
	and bleached by sun.
"Look to the ancient oaken tree
	with gnarled trunk
	and stretched out limbs.
"Look to the starlight twinkles
	far, far away, away
	deep in the blacknight sky.
"Look to the waves on the ocean;
	and imagine when they'll reach
	the farthest shore, then - lashing back -
	begin their long return.
"And think! dear child,
	of the generations
	that have come before -
	how many, how varied.
"Think of the nameless numbers,
	and the numberless faces,
	each with a smile or frown,
	or some such gesture,
	and each a history.
"Think of what language
	each might have spoken.
	They all have done so,
	through the years
	throughout the years.
"And they have dreamed of you,
	some vaguely, some concretely.
	Some vision of you has endured,
	has prospered and declined,
	inspired and despaired,
	but mostly has delighted.

"And today you have arrived!"

The old man creaked
	as he sat himself down on the step.
I could not understand his speech,
	it's meaning: this dance of spirits,
	which to him appeared as so familiar.
He settled his body and turned his face toward me,
	with a crinkle in his lip and a small tear in his eye.
	(I would guess it was Joy he portrayed in this manner, or
 	Hope; but there was so much in even such a simple seeming that
 	I almost dare not attempt to interpret its intention.)

"Time takes time," he said. "That's all! -
	Remember: Time takes time!" ...