A Vignette for My Father

When we moved it’s because my father

fell in love with eleven acres.

None of us knew, but the sight of it, wind

combing through the fields,

the same that ran through his hair and

reddened his cheeks the time

he first stood on the edge of the Grand

Canyon—the red oil egg yolk

swimming in his eyes and a cavity of clay

proportions opened up inside

generations of narrow streets and empty

fields. Now I catch a hidden

smile folded within brown sweaty skin

face to face with those eleven acres.

And those eyes sip in the trees and

every weed and flower and fence.

They drink in the blue canvas covering

of his fields, tall and brown, swaying

in the summer. Hands rolled on hips.

Body facing the smells and sun and saplings—

Western region of the body

He looks out and he loves

the space, they call it country air…

#2019