Father and son,
dust billowing as tracks imprint
during expeditions inside the city limit.
Escape to further wonders my son,
the father hopes in possible futility.
So often his wishes dissipate,
like the thinning mane
of a roaring dandelion.
Simplicity, in this reserve of the city.
respite not completely insufficient.
are hopeful signposts left
in the darkness of luminescent screens.
Perhaps the footprints,
or maybe the skipped rocks,
possibly the bathing mallards,
or our sweet banana muffins smelt by the red fox,
will leave enough of a footprint,
a deep enough outline,
a pillar of memory in this,
my son’s young mind.
Oh yes, I certainly hope.
Most likely to no avail,
that you will see the awe,
and the beauty of this trail.
My son I understand,
how our father hopes for us.
How he has our best interests planned
and hopes in him we’ll trust.
For I hope the same for you,
what amazes and also shakes
my core and comprehension,
is that even with confidence
in finite physical wisdom,
I cannot come infinitesimally close,
to our father’s grand plans.
I cannot even approach the splendor
of our father’s love for us.
Because I know and rejoice,
In the fact that it’s much greater,
than even my highest hopes and most majestic dreams,
could ever be for you.
So come now and hear,
the birds sing and the creek sigh.
Imagine my love, incomprehensibly magnified.
Seek me seeking him
and you will find,
the right path, the trail past,
all your worries and your woes.
And you will become as gentle through him,
as that yonder wandering doe.