A father
to his son
once spoke
words
that appeared
to fall
on deaf
ears.
Each day
this father
labored away
with hopes
of an
eventual
harvest.
Seasons passed
and
to no avail.
Seasons past
he reflects
now
-memories so
frail.
A father
to his son
once spoke
words
that appeared
to fall
on deaf
ears,
but that
boy-
boy,
did he try.
Each day
he labored away
with hopes
of creating
a harvest.
Seasons passed
and
the crops
each one would
fail.
Seasons past
he reflects
now
-memories
written in braille.
This father,
his heart aching
to see
his young son
grow,
persisted each day.
Sleepless nights.
Troublesome days.
This son,
his heart aching
to be
a young man,
-to know.
self-loathing of his own dismay.
Sleepless nights.
Troublesome days.
As each of them toiled
and troweled,
sifting through
the barren fruits
of their shared
labor-
uncertain of who
was failing
who.
The guilt
whispering
of failing
the other.
Their hands
burned with
broken blisters,
oozing
out the
last bits
of infected
pride.
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