I’m posting this poem tonight for my friend Joseph, who knows the earth and is sad.

MY FATHER’S BIRDS

The sky holds my father’s attention.
Birds come out of the sky
to his birdbaths and feeders.
He calls them by their common,
friendly names.

After he retired, he strapped
himself into little airplanes of nylon and aluminum,
and went off to see where birds are from.

I was afraid of the sun’s terrible temper,
the hard rolling clouds.
Afraid he would fly off, leave me
here to be a man.
I was afraid that his birds
came from heaven.

© 1999 Kyle Kimberlin