My Father’s Son

I can not read your mind my dear
Though sometimes wish I could.
But what would reading minds make clear;
And why would that be good?

I read the lines upon a page
And underline a few.
Then turn the page and crease the spine
And view some lines anew.

But what if I could read your mind,
A reading book of you,
Each chapter that recorded time,
Each page a day or two?

Fine images would take to flight
And voids would take up form
And passions all, from love to fright
With each new word be born.

But how would I know wrong from right,
Interpreting each morn
Of yours, with this my seeing sight?
(What blinded sight forlorn!)

So many books there are I’ve read
And images perceived -
Inspired insights often bred
And often been deceived.

So many books I’ve put aside,
Some finished, some undone,
To rest upon a shelf in pride
As if they were alone.

But never would they try to hide
Their ribs exposed like bone,
Their faded clothe and scratched up side -
They’d rather this be shown.

For what is life (to books, I mean)
If never they be worn?
Were they more happy being clean
Than with their pages torn?

Yet ask me which I know the best
I’d venture forth a guess
And say the one’s I’ve read the least,
For these I question less.

For each time that I lift again
A book I’ve read before
The notes I scrawled in margins then
Confuse me all the more.

Those helpers I had thought to pen
Now render more obscure
The images they’d sought to lend
Appearance more demure.

And so, in reading you, my dear -
And reading you again -
This knowledge which knows less, I fear
Is what I would obtain.

If I but knew this answer sure
I’d put my mind at rest:
Were I more happy knowing more,
Or happier knowing less?

On yellowed leaves of ancient lore
I found a tale from long before:
An aged man, who tilled his land
And sowed his seeds with chaffed, bare hands.

You must believe my word in this;
The manuscripts no more exist:
As ashen forms once touched do fall,
Of what remains, the dust is all.—

The seasons changed, the air grew dry.
His health had waned, his end drew nigh.
His plantings, they were yet undone;
He would not pass ’til there were none.

His hearing failed, his eyesight dimmed;
His beard grew long, no longer trimmed.
But still he waited for the rain;
He would not pass before it came.

He would not plant in arid earth:
For seeds set dry give barren birth.
And yet he sensed his time draw short—
He’d soon depart this earthen port.

The mud from foot of former stream
He scraped with care, as were it cream:
And in his palms transported so
This dampness for his plants to grow.

The moisture spread enough apart
To urge the budding sprouts to start.
Ere all were set he’d not retire,
Lest in his sleep his air expire.

And so prepared to meet his death—
And thus expelled his final breath:
“These plants whom now I know as seed—
Though I’ll ne’er see, shall bloom indeed!”

—You must believe his heart in this!
The old man can no more insist:
As forms decayed on touch collapse,
His dust is all we can yet grasp!-

I weep a tear for violin strings
that never caressed a child’s ear
with their voluptuous song.

I weep a tear for ‘cello bows
that never kissed their ‘cello strings,
and for the horse whose hairs strung there
could never grasp the notes they bear.

I weep a tear for metal cold,
that never was hot, and never wrought
into a trumpet, horn, or flute.

I weep for trees whose wood
shall never know an oboe’s shape
nor never feel a child’s breath
as only recorder’s do.

But most of all I whimper softly
to know that somewhere in the world outside
there lives a soul (if one can so live)
that never touched an instrument,
nor heard the sounds of heaven.

For if there ever were a god,
my god would sing to everyone!