A Dream For My Father

By Ken Woodley

Sometimes,

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

I imagine you as a child wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

and if the heart behind the hand knows you’re watching,

wading toward the deep end of the sky,

up to your neck now

and wanting to swim

in communion

with the reflection of the sun

along the surface of the lunar song

being sung across the skin of heaven.

Sometimes,

the light splashes

and you feel its current all around,

lifting you for a moment so brief

that it seems unreal,

as if it were only a fantasy of your own desperate yearning.

But also of my own.

Because I am there, too, Dad.

Beside you.

Both of us children.

Sharing the same dream.

Sometimes, we feel the heart behind the hand

send us skipping, too, across the clouds

in the wake of the singing moon.

And then our wondering turns to wonder,

turning sometimes into

Always and Forever

until the shouting, weeping, tumbling world sweeps 

Always and Forever aside

and we find ourselves

looking up into the night-time sky

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

both of us wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

and if the heart behind the hand knows we’re watching.

And that is where we find God

finding us together.

Always

and Forever.

(Note: I wrote this for my father’s funeral. He left this world for heaven six months ago.)

By Ken Woodley

Sometimes,
when the moon seems skillfully slung
to skip across the rushing clouds,
I imagine you as a child wondering whose wrist and fingers
give this crescent light its motion
and if the heart behind the hand knows you’re watching,
wading toward the deep end of the sky,
up to your neck now
and wanting to swim
in communion
with the reflection of the sun
along the surface of the lunar song
being sung across the skin of heaven.
Sometimes,
the light splashes
and you feel its current all around,
lifting you for a moment so brief
that it seems unreal,
as if it were only a fantasy of your own desperate yearning.
But also of my own.
Because I am there, too, Dad.
Beside you.
Both of us children.
Sharing the same dream.
Sometimes, we feel the heart behind the hand
send us skipping, too, across the clouds
in the wake of the singing moon.
And then our wondering turns to wonder,
turning sometimes into
Always and Forever
until the shouting, weeping, tumbling world sweeps
Always and Forever aside
and we find ourselves
looking up into the night-time sky
when the moon seems skillfully slung
to skip across the rushing clouds,
both of us wondering whose wrist and fingers
give this crescent light its motion
and if the heart behind the hand knows we’re watching.
And that is where we find God
finding us together.
Always
and Forever.


(Note: I wrote this for my father’s funeral. He left this world for heaven six months ago.)