Self Portrait

(for my father)

It took

     me

           awhile

        to learn

to live

     with fear.

      As a child,

   trembling,

you would

            hold me

                     gently,

     whispering,

          softly.

“All will be OK,”

        you’d say.

“Trust your luck,”

     you’d say.

“It will all

        work out,

        in the end,”

     you’d say.

In the end,

      hearing

      is not listening

   and threads

are best

        woven

                   slowly,

slowly.

 Pull

   too soon,

they break.

       Spin

     too fast,

they snarl.

And

all the  

     while

      the

        listening

         lay hidden

in the silence

               between.

For years,

    I thought

      you meant

storms

 would pass,

            and threads

would hold.

But things

 collapse,

and

 tensions

fray,

  and

      quietly

promises

 soften

as their

      edges

   give

way

to

 a

    deeper

listening,

to

  a

thinning,

 to

   where,

    at last,

 on a breath,

your words

      can finally

be heard

 in the quiet

darkness

      of a moon

                not yet

                  rising,

slowly,

      slowly,

beyond

the old

  patterns

 of fear

and

response,

towards

 the almost

stillness

 of what

was

      meant

all  

  along

   to

   the

quiet

      task

 of simply

being.

In the end,

trusting

  that

  luck

earned

 through

strain,

can

  finally

     be  

 heard

and

       all

in

    the

       end

will

        be

OK.