My father knows when great men
were born, and when they wrote
the works that brought them fame.
When empires fell, and why
our history books fail
us, time and again.
He teaches me how to listen
for the silences, the in-between states,
the graceful exits of saints.
Two birds fly past me
and out of sight. My father knows
when the birds come, and when the rain.
Watch for the thread, he says,
and I see it. I feel it strain, trying to maintain
our broken wings, our feathered remains.
We are tied together, my father and I
and you, echoing souls, gathering close
and closer by the day.