there is a picture of us
on my desk
at the farm

fall
pumpkins
donuts
cider

you are almost two
you look serious
i look happy
tired

content

but the colors are perfect
as the leaves change
and i have my arms wrapped around you

fortunate to know
that you
are my son

and i
am your father.

i strike back
at the words
at this life
at loosing it

at taking up more time

at the keyboard
at the artist table

with friends
family
the forgotten
and the reclaimed

i strike back
because i still can

still have a voice
still have time
still have something left to give

before everything is taken from me
and the only thing left

is the idea
is the heart
is the head

is the memory

of me
you
and what we’ve become

only books
only stories
only this
that was

that could have been
as all else fails
gets pushed aside

and rests easy on the notion
that nothing is formidable

not exchange rates
not currency
not love in the afterglow

of nuclear proliferation’s
failed nightmares
that turn into daydreams

cold beer left in the afternoon sun

or heartache at the tender age of twelve
or the explanation that everyone recieves
when nothing else is expectable

it’s not you
it’s me

it’s not us
it’s them

it’s not where we are
but who we are

as i choke down past memories

to solutions
to problems
to ideas

that never meet in the middle
only push out on all sides

and take on more water
more flood damage
more living in places

no one should ever go

and yet this is where i am
current location
blues low land

no insurance provided
no litigation
no collateral damage
no movement under the color of night

just sadness
just loss

and the understanding
that everything is eventual
everything is
as it was

even in the eye of the storm
even when things are calm
and the only thought process that comes to the surface

that re-imagines itself

is the failure of rebirth
or the knowledge that there is nothing worth loosing
that could ever put a price

on love
on love’s memory
or the exceptable rhetoric

that makes haste

out of our lives
out of our dignity
out of our time

until all that’s left

are crosses
loneliness
and the perpetual silence
that echoes blame
down a dark hallway

under shadow’s weight
and loss’s bleeding heart.

today i bought a bread scraper
and a bottle of whiskey

the two sit next to each other
exchanging glances
on my cutting board

as i drink my whiskey slow
and think about new bread
new techniques
new ideas

in an old house

where love blossoms
family grows
and things
don’t seem as impossible

as they once did.

i make bread now

there is something so angelic
so perfect about making bread

the craft
the care
the response

to waiting
to sitting
to listening

to yeast
to rise
to movement

of simple things

flour
water
salt

but they are essential
a backbone
a flavor enhancer

a shape
a body

and yet it changes
it mixes
it moves
and makes everything

come together
in ways i would of never thought of

the elegance of perfection
infused with time
energy
and the subtle understanding

of what love means

as dough rises
performs
and reconstructs

under new meaning
and new subtitles.