Father
He vanishes the way night does–
you know it’s leaving,
you watch it go,
and still the morning catches you off guard.
They say he heals everything.
Mends what’s broken, smooths
what’s rough, fills in
the cracks we can’t reach.
But we waste him.
Burn through him like he’s endless,
then panic when the balance drops.
To the young, he’s nobody.
A face in the hallway,
a name mentioned at holidays
that doesn’t mean anything yet.
But the old ones watch him.
They track his every move
the way you watch a tide
that’s already turning.
The lines on his face
tell nothing of his age.
He’s seen it all and seen nothing,
caught somewhere between
peace and rage,
moving always, unmeasured,
unconfined.
And we let him pass in silence,
thinking he’ll always be there
when we turn around.
We lead the sheep to slaughter,
strip the young of their grace,
live our lives with veiled eyes
so we never have to face the truth.
Then plead innocence.
Claim we didn’t know.
So won’t you please forgive us,
Father Time.