THE SHAPE OF HIS SHOULDER
By Curt L. Sytsma
Since someone once said that men cannot say it out loud and still be men, this verse is for the thousands of millions of men who long to tell their father, "I love you." - Rod Sytsma's son.
I'll always remember an early November,
When I was as young as my son is today.
I scrambled to follow my dad through the hollow
And hill of the timber for most of the day.
Th sun, in course, dwindled. Its color was kindled.
The trees became ghosts in a lavender gloam.
I wearied of trudging, and Dad without grudging,
Put me on his shoulder and carried me home.
My father, so limber in trekking the timber,
Was tall as tomorrow and strong as a ram.
He was without equal or rival or sequel
And thus he is central to all that I am.
I'll always remember that wondrous September
When I was a marvel of muscle and tan.
I preened for the prancing of youthful romancing
And felt all the glory of being a man.
And as I indulged in a final inspection,
I paused like a bishop at St. Peter's dome:
I saw looking back in the mirror's reflection
The shape of the shoulder that carried me home.
As I have grown older, the shape of his shoulder
Has stood as my symbol of duty and hope.
No trial or snaring will find me despairing.
I'm blessed with his shoulders and thus I can cope.
I'll always remember that day in December
When flourescent light kissed a stainless-steel room.
I buckled and quavered, but as my wife labored,
A son of our making came forth from her womb.
I looked at his body, so wrinkled and crinkled,
And saw something fairer than Paris or Rome:
I saw in his shoulder the shape of my shoulder,
That wonderful shoulder that carried me home.
They tell me that women know secrets a woman
And only a woman can barbor and feel.
I beg off the question, not being a woman,
And yet I know something that's wondrous and real.
I know that my father and my father's father
And all of our fathers since time first began
Will live in the shoulder that, when he gets older,
Will tell my dear Justin that he is a man.
As long as there's life on this side of the curtain,
As long as there's fire in the ball of the sun,
I'll gather my solace from something that's certain--
The magic of being both father and son.
By Curt L. Sytsma
Since someone once said that men cannot say it out loud and still be men, this verse is for the thousands of millions of men who long to tell their father, "I love you." - Rod Sytsma's son.
I'll always remember an early November,
When I was as young as my son is today.
I scrambled to follow my dad through the hollow
And hill of the timber for most of the day.
Th sun, in course, dwindled. Its color was kindled.
The trees became ghosts in a lavender gloam.
I wearied of trudging, and Dad without grudging,
Put me on his shoulder and carried me home.
My father, so limber in trekking the timber,
Was tall as tomorrow and strong as a ram.
He was without equal or rival or sequel
And thus he is central to all that I am.
I'll always remember that wondrous September
When I was a marvel of muscle and tan.
I preened for the prancing of youthful romancing
And felt all the glory of being a man.
And as I indulged in a final inspection,
I paused like a bishop at St. Peter's dome:
I saw looking back in the mirror's reflection
The shape of the shoulder that carried me home.
As I have grown older, the shape of his shoulder
Has stood as my symbol of duty and hope.
No trial or snaring will find me despairing.
I'm blessed with his shoulders and thus I can cope.
I'll always remember that day in December
When flourescent light kissed a stainless-steel room.
I buckled and quavered, but as my wife labored,
A son of our making came forth from her womb.
I looked at his body, so wrinkled and crinkled,
And saw something fairer than Paris or Rome:
I saw in his shoulder the shape of my shoulder,
That wonderful shoulder that carried me home.
They tell me that women know secrets a woman
And only a woman can barbor and feel.
I beg off the question, not being a woman,
And yet I know something that's wondrous and real.
I know that my father and my father's father
And all of our fathers since time first began
Will live in the shoulder that, when he gets older,
Will tell my dear Justin that he is a man.
As long as there's life on this side of the curtain,
As long as there's fire in the ball of the sun,
I'll gather my solace from something that's certain--
The magic of being both father and son.
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