Who is my father to me?
Old Chevy truck, jumbled toolbox,
Knicks and knacks, garage full of sawdust.
Peanut shells on the floor and shelves
—endless Pringle cans of bent nails.

Empty hook at weekend's dawn.
Cowboy hat on lap, yellowed by the sun,
Covering his face during afternoon naps
In between mowing the lawn.

Black coffee and boot polishing on Sunday mornings.
Stride through church doors with a firm handshake and
“Howdy, how ya doin’s?”

Pen in his shirt pocket, pencil tucked behind his ear.
Blueprints backordered on dreams
To fix broken lamps, leaky pipes, and tears.

Hazel eyes always searching blue skies,
Awed at Creation from mountain peaks,
And wildflower meadows,
To streams which rush beneath.  
But never so awed of these scenes
As of You, O’ Creator, and me.

So, holes in all his shirts, worn Northwest cap,
Sun-bleached hair, Bible in his lap.
Tattered, ink-filled pages, church bulletins every other,
That is the image I see of my father.