Carry the Fire

This is a poem to my father Bill
who taught me to carry the glowing torch
along the dark and narrow road
succumbed to darkness and gloom
I have watched as you build your fire
your calloused hands thick with work
and scratched from the coarse wood
we gaze at the radiant flame
a vivid mixture of reds, yellows, and oranges
because when I needed you to spread
the lustrous embers into my hands
you would reach into your burning cauldron of wisdom
and bring them forth
I thought you knew
that I gazed at the beauty that spewed
from your hands in a dazzle of luminescence
and you did, your loving eyes surveying me
but now I see that you wanted me to build my own rising flame
for life love hope
until the day my glistening eyes
dry and wither
because I think this world is in many ways cruel
but filled with fragmented gorgeousness
like the echo of our laughter on those summer afternoons
beneath the shimmering rays of the sun
so I write this for you, my father
who taught me how to carry the fire
until the sun waves hello one last time