For Dad
I am listening to Floyd, thinking of my father
as a young man, his labored smile in some photos,
a look of knowing. It is the music that spoke for him
what he could not say about a broken-seeming world.
The sky is dark, the hills only shadow,
except for a peace sign in red and green lights
high above the freeway. The feeling begins at my core
something like yearning, a subdued passion, then a knowing
that the colors complement each other; that from fire
comes new life; from anger, growth; from full stop,
movement. I give an internal nod to the peace artist,
whose home is obscured behind the trees, or behind the light.
At the root, we know each other’s hearts.
Washtub Press 
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