My Father in Unfolding Story

My father in unfolding story…
The word, the cup of coffee he sips instead.
With coke bottle glasses, he read and read.
Five-thirty A.M., uncovered, still uncovering
My Father. Before candles, before
The dawn, before this space, before
My needs. And without speed, no haste
In a fast and steady hand.
Waste not the day, redeem the morning,
Alone and unclothed, before
And below, my God, my Father.
Dad, you sewed my favorite sweater,
The one that is so warm in winter.
You never knew you knit,
And yet, you never really quit weaving,
Weaving, pushing, leaving, giving.
And now that it is well worn: receiving.
I remember folder fingers. Around one
Another like two needles together.
How each stitch, morning and evening,
Unseen and foreseeing
Reason and intent, and I would be content,
To sit on my daughter’s bed and pray.
To hold my wife’s hand,
To now understand
To graft heavy plans into spirited vines
And when the light of delight declines
Breathe joyous ones into more somber sons.
My father, how you wrapped that family
Around my shoulders, around our shoulders,
Around my heart.
Of my Father, the growing glory
Of my father in unfolding story…