my father is a spreading tree
and I and many others
live in his shade and branches
Note: I have had this line in my head for well over a year and have been able to do nothing with it. When it first came to me, I thought perhaps it would be the basis for some grand statement on the “thinginess” of fathers, on the reality of them, on the way a father or a mother both take up and make space in the world around them, the way they give shape and meaning to the very worlds we live in. I still want to write that statement, but I also want to put these words on a page somewhere. Maybe they will germinate and something better will grow up from them.
