My dad has always been an early riser,
The one to greet the day at sun up, rain or shine,
For hunting,
For fishing,
For working,
And now,
Those hurting, aching bones don’t let him sleep
Or linger long beneath the covers,
And neither does the dog who needs to pee.
My dad gets on up, makes his coffee,
Sits on the couch just long enough
To make his battle plan,
Writing out his list of things to do
Organized by the day of the week,
And when he’s done, he’ll have filled
That entire yellow legal pad page.
Then he’ll get up and start to cross them off,
Methodically, predictably.
After looking at the scans of his crooked back,
Wondering how he could still stand up and walk,
The doctor said,
“Yours is the worst I’ve seen in a month,
Yet you’re still moving.”
So to the garden to pick the corn,
Then shuck it under the shade of the basswood tree,
Humming with the bees who make no list
But understand the job.
Time to go inside, for the heat of the day is upon us.
Silk those golden ears at the kitchen table.
Help Mother blanch and pack them,
For her back is not much better than his.
Seal them up, good and tight,
Four at a time to feed us
All year long, and beyond.
By then, there’ll be another task to do,
Maybe going to a grandkid’s games,
The same child, who on a Father’s Day at church
During craft time, all those years ago, said,
“I don’t have a daddy, I have a pawpaw.”
The teacher didn’t know just what to say,
So she told me,
And just as soon as fire devours oxygen
The world gathered on a pinprick, moment of truth:
For all those who don’t have daddies,
Or for those who have sorry ones,
I hope there’s someone else to take their place
Who put you on their list.
Thank God for those who take their place–
The early risers,
Who make the games,
Grow the corn,
Do the job.
And keep moving.