BUD

Silvered son of old Mill Creek. South Jackson knew your trampings well, in times hungered
through those Sebastian fields,
fighting radio wars, saved and faded, all your battles won.

Tireless new foot-fall legs, bent on fire, going elsewhere on the help
from mama’s hand and Mail bags trudge gave
homestead and food for all. Hard tack squinted eyes all set to just- enough.

Hot sweated pay for games yet dear, Hardscrabble-rounds grew you from short to tall.
Grizzly cold autumns of turf on the run,
the man-boys struggles for the hummed speakers call.

Back to home-dirt so dear you Conflict-wing-ed son, a dance so sweet with that Hoosier peach
so young, so long, the walk
down the aisle from home. Grass gone to seed down roads to roam.

Grasping tides now two hands one, Never far, Never far, Never too far to somewhere come.
Moving truck family and unboxed looks
from other folks that just stood still. The voice just sings of Home.

Our patterned banner spliced-quilt wave, for chapters each now untold.
So keep soft your heart as the road is long.
We all hail not near, but are banded tight in love, we five strong.


For my father on his 80th birthday

11.2.2011