To my father time,
my keeper of clocks whose minute hand
never clicks too fast for my growing mind,
whose hand was always held out to help me over curbs
and over mountains
Leading me to the path he’d knew I needed to walk down the most.
To the gray hair I loved to brush through as a child, with paintbrush fingers
and as an adult discreetly smell with each long, over due hug.
To the man I loved first and the one I give thanks for
every last thanksgiving.
The one whose eyes held the same color as mine
and when I looked into them saw I us both
picking flowers down the street
but father time
your eyes were always slightly different than mine
they had a touch of yellow that I could never,  in my own eyes find
but how I wanted that same hue of gold.
To be touched by your Midas eyes I thought I could uncover the world
but I can’t. You are too far away and I miss you
and I can no longer feel the warmth of those yellow specks
only the black of your pupils that are
deeper than the ocean and I am a fish without gills forever trying
to swim toward the orange light the sun yields each morning
only to be stuck in mud  
forever waiting  for your glowing second hand to touch me again each hour
and remind me to look for gold in blackness
and that I have the same eyes as yours, that can turn minute hands into
years of arms and mud into gold.