My Father’s Chair

My Father's chair.

My Father’s chair.

Oh, to be snowbound today
blanketed safe from the noise of living,
heavy quiet stilling daily chores,
calling to halt nervous chatter,
busy hands,
icing the burn of loss

I would sit in his chair at the kitchen
window, his lens to a world he once
imbibed, to see his view, one
he will no longer attend

I would watch snow silently lining branches
bend till boney fingers kiss the ground
weighed down by flakes so fragile
until too many rest
one on top of the next,
surrender, and finally,
release to Winter’s call

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Author’s Note:

My dad passed through the veil sunday morning while I was away at Mass.

This morning, with the snow bearing down on the Eastern Coast, I saw his empty chair at the window he so enjoy looking out.

I miss him so.

Dad's view of the world and the tree that brought him so much enjoyment.

Dad’s view of the world and the tree that brought him so much enjoyment.

 

Some Storms

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Some storms blow in
make their presence known
cover ground and fill sky so
completely with their fury
white and cold suffocate
all under siege

Today a snowy mist
put down minimal icing
quiet enough to hear your
breathing on earth
a whispered I am

I hear your presence in the
gentle fall of flakes sitting
on black asphalt, a deep
call within to listen
then see, and feel

I should stand just once
sans coat and shoes
palms open to the sky
bare feet against the ground
allow your wintery rime to
cover me the same as I
assent to summer sun

I only see stars when
dark night shades the sky

I understand your warmth
only after I have known cold

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Author’s Note:

A reflection on becoming quiet, learning to listen, and Ferguson MO. Thank you Ryan Taylor, Tall Monastic Guy, and those with you who are learning to listen and helping me to do the same.