My father was a rock carved from the north side of Mt. Whitney
His snowy-white tousled hair covering the peaks above his brow
With arms splintered and reaching up to the sun like redwoods
He was monumental, hardened and gruff like a black bear
Grunting and spitting, throwing boulders into creeks with ease
Splitting and exploding trunks of wood with swings and slicing
Loudly chiseling and whittling the world into what he saw fit
Bending trees together and laying them out for a place to rest
Grinding and striking he made blazes that scorched the sky
Only ending when everything was either black or twisted

I spent my whole life hoping he was a geode.
That if I could catch him without him looking,
I could crack him open,
And possibly find
A glint of sparkle and color inside.

06/17/2014

Posted on 06/17/2014
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