The clouds and my father
bent low and grey
to drag their heavy shadows across the mountains—
his, the narrow ones from plow,
theirs, the massive ones that rimmed our valley.
By noon they forgot what they were dragging
Turned white, and drew up all the grey,
The stooped shoulders,
The heavy feet…
And years flew off ‘til there was nothing left of valleys,
Just a flat playing field, cleared of stubble,
A mitt and ball in hand, a baseball bat
I think maybe he was 18 again.
…just a dream it was,
But such a wonder-one,
How clouds can pull their weight and more—
Reveal as much as hide a spot of sunshine.