my daddy's hands
calloused sweaty
hairy paint speckled hands
scooped up the soil from the earth
as he leaned over on his broken back
and planted bulbs
in the heat of spring
the bleach white sun
shone off his perspiration streaked
forehead
upon which worry lines always creased
his temple in half
like a paper folded over so many times
he'd look up from his work
catch my eye
and smile
like he always did in the pictures
youthful, vibrant, classically handsome
tirelessly devoted to being a father
and making miracles happen with wood
this is the way I like to view my father:
he's passed on
but he's up in another dimension
with loamy ground
and endless beaches
blood orange and fiery pink sunsets
he's in over his head from happiness
because for the first time in his existence
he's finally at peace.