My father is the earth
dark, deep, rich soil
soil tilled and turned
from the sunrise
to the sunset
sometimes in sweat
sometimes in blood
from the day born from it
to the day returned to it.

My father is the earth.

My father is the root
of the mahogany, the ebony, the oak
drinking heavily of
the sweet rain of the clouds
the salt rain of the tears
drenched deep in the soil
of my fathers before them

My father is the root.

My father is the trunk
rough on the outside
sometimes ripped by nature
sometimes stripped by man
but in the story of each ring
hidden deep inside
is the smooth beauty
known only by those
born of him

My father is the trunk.

My father is the limb
raised forward in the wind
raised forward in the rain
raised forward in the snow
raised forward to the sun
because you can't teach
fathers to look forward
by having fathers
looking back

My father is the limb.