Why is my father standing
                           in the apple tree,
feet splayed from branch to branch?
               Why this temptation
of my father to carry his seventy-one years
into the branches of this tree

and point his clippers at the sky
as if he could snip a piece
                             of that blue cloth,
carry it into the house
and spread it over his bed?

Would it turn to darkness and stars
             as he slept?

I stand below, watching him,
                          arms over his head,
shrouded in apple blossoms
              cheery and wingy as angels,

and see him look skyward, past
the spring shoots racing
                                          heavenward,

and I want to be gravity, pull my father
                                       back to earth,
look him in the eyes with my grave face,
a little god taking him to task.

I want his feet on damp ground,
              my arms holding him tighter
than this tree which cannot fathom
              the word daughter.

It makes me afraid,
on this day of blooming possibilities
              to see him stretching,
seeming so intent
                             upon heaven.

© by Pamela Porter.
Used with the author’s permission.