I am painting a picture of my father.
My eyes, in halting glances and meditation
cross over the field of photograph to canvas.
~Each stroke filled with the color of flesh
moves with scrutiny over the cloth,
to bring heart to this still lifeless copy.
My hand turns with deliberate intent,
to render the passion of his laughter,
trembling strokes welling his eyes with love;
brushing the assurance of his kiss upon my cheek.
How do you sketch a father’s love?
What hue captures the resurrection of his words?
I can not see through my tears to frame
this portrait sealed in the very soul
of who I am or will ever be.
I want only to place my lips upon this painted cheek
and become one of its colors.
To be once again blended into his being,
pulling at his arm,
at any hour of skipping rope,
or sitting across the table pushing politics -
~Simply just to take back time
and have my father walk from these rubbings.