Calling

When I am still as I am in this moment
I can hear the urgent grasping of the copper leaves
when the heat of summer holds tightly to a small clammy hand
and the eventual crystals of winter have not yet gathered at the feet of all the oaks.
The crisp bodies rattle together, so familiar with the dimming light.

When the rains of some tropical place tumble in
as an unexpected guest,
interrupting the frost with floods,
breaking the connections of our voices
like birds lost in migration,
I dream of my father and his fragile bones
fighting to stay above ground.

He calls me in the morning to ask me about the skies
and my sons until he can’t hear me and hands the phone back
to my mother. I panic like I did
before 8 a.m. thirty years ago when the rates were lowest
and he called just to see if I was in my room next to the ringer.

His voice so certain I would answer.

It is the same way he soaked the cast off his arm
the day I was born
so he could hold me softly without tears,
without needing to keep anything from me.

His word was that good.

With each syllable of an idea
he whispers little handfuls of life’s stories,
clings with all his strength to the swaying shadows
before he drops away from the tree
calling out with the last breath
toward all the heaven he could ever imagine.