To Dad

Nathan Fako


I am sitting on the porch

in the early cold light

wiggling bare toes

against the frozen porous stone

where you used to sit

and watch the beagle in the snow.


From above the steps

on a gray plastic chair

I see the catalpa trees

whose early buds, in Spring,

your mechanic wrists tried

endlessly to emulate.


Have you ever, as I am now,

considered the birds?


For a moment you were there

though peripheral.

Do father and son share


but blood?

Are the wrens singing to you?


The wind stops...

I must be wrong.

A bird sings

just because.

And I know

you'll be home soon.