My father would read between the lines
To find a comfortable place to exist
His words were veiled by a velvet cloak
Understatements wrapped neatly in their over-thinking

He would wince in pain as sharp gravel
Would impale his cold calloused feet
The road was unenviable in its condition
Yet he never left the discomfort of the ground

He had no proclivity to shepherd my path
He would let me stumble and crash over my own roots
So I took my time and I kept my distance
For his battered body was foreign to my eyes

He would drift out of sight, out of mind
But out of heart was a different story
As all the shoal and sand settled down around him
He remained governed by a far different wave