My Father's Song
Simon J. Ortiz
Wanting to say things,
I miss my father tonight.
His voice, the slight catch,
the tremble of his emotion
in something he has just said
the depth from his thin chest,
to his son, his song:
We planted corn one Spring at Acu–
we planted several times
but this one particular time
I remember the soft damp sand
in my hand.
My father had stopped at one point
to show me an overturned furrow;
the plowshare had unearthed
the burrow nest of a mouse
in the soft moist sand.
Very gently, he scooped tiny pink animals
into the palm of his hand
and told me to touch them.
We took them to the edge
of the field and put them in the shade
of a sand moist clod.
I remember the softness
of cool and warm sand and tiny alive mice
and my father saying things.
Speaking
Simon J Ortiz
I take him outside
under the trees,
have him stand on the ground.
We listen to the crickets,
cicadas, million years old sound.
Ants come by us.
I tell them,
"This is he, my son.
This boy is looking at you.
I am speaking for him."
The crickets, cicadas,
the ants, the millions of years
are watching us,
hearing us.
My son murmurs infant words,
speaking, small laughter
bubbles from him.
Tree leaves tremble.
They listen to this boy
speaking for me.