Connections

Out the sun porch window, looking south
with the morning sun slanting across the
huge dirt yard, a lone bluebird stands jittery
as a high school boy walks by the chain-link
fence.

School boys are indelible in the memory of
a teacher who loved his work, who lucked
out on his chosen profession. And now, out
here in a temporary home away from the later
children

I am in need of connection. I miss being
the father. I used to put up their lunches in
brown bags and wash their clothes, and ached
with a love of them all. Nothing is wrong as I look
out

this window. Circumstance has disconnected
me physically from those earlier joys, and this
window view comes at a time when mortality is
sticking its limits in the face of my siblings. Yet I
am

buoyed this bright early November morning
struck with an anticipation of Christmas. I want
to gather together some of my feeble poetry in
packages and give them to my daughters and
son.

If they are wanting for a literary finesse, at least
there is no doubt they hold the true spirit of me.
They are my careful attempts to understand
myself. I hope they are more than sentimental
spasms.