Wanting to say things,

I miss my father tonight.

His voice, the slight catch,

the depth from his thin chest,

the tremble of emotion

in something he has just said

to his son, his song:


We planted corn one Spring at Acu

we planted several times

But this one particular time

I remember the soft damp sand

in my hand.


My father had stopped at one point

to show me an overturned furrow;

the plowshare had unearthed

the burrow nest of a mouse

in the soft moist sand.


Very gently, he scooped tiny pink animals

into the palm of his hand

and told me to touch them.

We took them to the edge

of the field and put them in the shade

of a sand moist clod.


I remember the very softness

of cool and warm sand and tiny alive mice

and my father saying things...