the eyes that stare back are mine,
but the body is something foreign.
is that me?
how?
i don't know what to do with this body,
how to make it move,
or do the things a body is supposed to do.
it moves differently than mine -
is this what 'swagger' is?
it's just as uncomfortable, this body,
as my old one,
and i don't know how to make it work.
i'm learning,
and it's going to be a little awkward for a while,
but please, bear with me,
because i'm capable of more, now,
than i've ever been before,
and i am making the world a better place.

sometimes, i wonder if we're all angels,
and we fell from Grace,
our time here is so that we can re-learn
how to get back what we've lost.
each time we die,
we come back to learn a new lesson,
in the hopes we finally get it right.

a notecard in a book,
bearing two words that bring to the fore
countless desires and longings,
secrets i tell no one,
not even in my prayers.

a simple phrase that reminds me
of a truth i learned long ago
and rarely allow myself to indulge -
i am allowed to dream.

possible wishes,
probable dreams,
attainable hopes,
life lived.

digging in the soil,
you find roots -
plants of all kinds,
trees and grasses, shrubs, vegetables and vines,
some you keep and tend,
some you throw away,
yanking them from the ground forcefully.

digging in the soil,
i found the root of me,
my beginning,
and from there i began to grow,
and will yield fruit yet.

a long walk home,
a chance to think about a lot of things
i normally can't,
the opportunity to have a million conversations
in my head,
knowing they will never actually happen -
the only way to quiet the voices there,
as each step brings me closer
to the goal,
closer to being home.

i never understood his passion for it,
planning meticulously how many feet
it might take,
how much to put in the ground.
how far apart each row must be,
knowing just how much space the late-bloomers
needed, and when,
so he could remove the early ones before they were overwhelmed.
now, i understand -
when planting my first garden,
just what it was my father always did
and i took for granted.
my hands remember how,
after many long years of avoiding the work,
they remember how to plant a garden.

you are resting, at long last,
your journey done,
and all that's left are memories
good and bad.
i needed you, and you were there,
as a father should be for a child,
to nurture and grow and discipline -
to be an example.
and now,
as i have done many times before,
i lay myself to rest,
another version of me taking up space
in the cemetery of my forbears,
all laid to rest with the same loving care
as a new me takes his rightful place.
i carry the torch, now,
and know that one day this will be my home, too,
as another generation will
take up this standard.
my son, i lay no burden on you but this:
live with the heart of the fire,
love with the depth of the oceans,
fight with the strength of the mountain,
and speak with the breath of the wind.