Saturday, September 3, 2022



Some dads cast a giant shadow

While others just leave an big empty space

That a boy spends most of his life 

Figuring out ways to fill

He tries on sadness for while

But tears never last for long

In such dry inhospitable ground.

Besides, the man of the house mustn't cry

Even when the man is just a boy. 

So he tries on anger

And it suits him well.

He makes an ax and goes 

In search of forests to fell.

It’s hard work laboring under

The searing gnaw of an acid sun

That burns his pale skin

So many times it thickens

Into a scarred bronze hide

That doesn't hurt anymore 

No matter how bright it shines.

And because it doesn't hurt he keeps cutting 

And the dull thud of metal against wood

Echoes rhythmically like a ticking clock

And time passes and the boy becomes man.

He begins to feel strong.

Cords of cut wood slowly

Fill the old emptiness behind him.

One day, wiping the sweat from his brow,

He notices the large dark shadow

Unfurling away from his form

And the old sadness returns.

He sees at last that 

Shadows are also shade

To shield us from summer furnace 

And that we can’t seek respite in the one we cast,

That someone else must protect us

When we’re young.

And so the man stops cutting.

He puts down his ax.

He takes off anger

And sits for a moment on a stump

While the sun bakes the back of his neck.

And then he sees him, his son,

Just a small boy 

On the very edge of stretched darkness—

Half pale in his shadow

Half shining in the sun,

Now ready for the brunt of the brightness


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