LAMENTATIONS 

Poor and great father, resemblance of the many who pass me on the street. Yes, singularly you!

Father, enamored of science, listened to the son chase down delicate and precise words of his discrete imagination; bow your head poet and leave early, back into the confusions of the city and the mixtures that drown out the voice of the father.

Are the masters strong enough to keep the father at bay until the work is confident enough to go forward?

Memories and affection; the father and the boy; taking the boys hand and tickling it on the stubby chin. Several good words from the father would be sufficient to release the poet from a terrible burden. And when they are not forthcoming, the memories are a burden.

The boy and his father taking turns carrying each other on their backs. Reading Aristotle in the green spring when the owls are feisty and come down through the spectral trees. What quiet beauty there. Presence. Water in winter through the mud, lit with silver coins. Politics and decay. "Well," the boy said, "one day we'll find the answer to everything and God will no longer be necessary. Right Dad?" Soft chuckle. "We'll never find the end of anything."

© 2001 David Eide. All rights reserved.