Near Father
We crunched ice cold apples
in the frost, mist morning.
We walked steep streets,
while the wise old city slept.
We walked
steep streets,
while the wise, old city
slept.
You led and listened,
though you'd covered the way
many times
with strong strides.
I followed and chattered,
chilled and proud
to share your solitude
with God and the trees.
Now I look down
on your sparse, white hair,
revealing the mottled skull
of age.
I journey apart,
further and faster,
we can't walk often,
together.
But wherever we are,
where ever, my Father,
I'll still look to you
for my leading.
