Oh,
Father of mine.

How art thee
Fair?

When the wind blows
Through your little bit of hair.

Do you find solace
There?

Out back.
Amongst the roots
Of that masterful
Tree.

Planted,
Some years ago.

When eyes
We're still clear.

The innocence of life
Was not jaded by loss.

Oh,
Father of mine.

How art thee
Fair?

When the the raindrops hide
Your very few fears.

When there is no room
For tears.

And we have to
Move on.

Oh,
Father of mine.

How art thee
Fair?

When I hold your hand
'Cause he can't be here.