We Are Not Fathers

It is winter,

And he falls,

The son who survived,

Crystals hold fast on his brow,

The scavengers,

Terrorists,

Make themselves known on the rim,

In silence they watch,

The son who survived,

Crystals holding fast on his brow,

His father,

Comes sharply out of the wood,

Pickax slung over his shoulder,

His eyes look and think of the mines,

But his expression is what holds,

The cold in the lungs,

Only once before,

Only two years old,

Oh he had forgotten,

His father had gladly thrust them up,

Himself who survived and the daughter who did not,

Her hair spinning black,

(Oh that awful color haunts from the back of their eyes always!)

Strong hands gripped them both,

Strong hearts loved them all.

The clouds reminded,

Him who had survived,

Of the beauty in the barren,

And the ability to change,

The snow gradually wrapping,

Forgiveness on the one who survived,

And animals watching,

Feasting on the future in the white.

It is winter, 

And in the dark the women,

Nineteen and filling,

Bend and bounce and

Shake and sound and

Collapse in your arms and

Their muscles are not their own,

Not since their fathers disappeared,

In the cold riches of the earth,

As children the watched,

Pigtailed and playful,

One after another descend,

Pickax propped over their shoulders,

Broad and full of densely packed,

Tendons and solemnity.

So now they dance,

Pigtailed and playful,

Around the fires their fathers didn't start,

(They won't see will they?

Shhhh)

In the winter,

We are not the fathers,

We have been given too much,

"The fear of the Lord"

To be taken so lightly,

The warmth of a breast,

To be used so secularly,

The cold a dim reminder,

We flee each other's arms so quickly!

We were each babies ourselves!

Just yesterday Darling!

In the winter,

The cold breathes in and out with you,

Walks around with you,

Assesses your condition.

Warm your children lest they feel alone.