In my fifty-fifth year,
kneeling in my garden
to pull a weed,
I discover my father,
whom I hardly knew,
lying down in his garden.
His heart so damaged now
no doctor would remove
the cataracts that spoil his sight,
he has no other way to see
what he is doing. With him again
in his sad dimness,
I don’t want to lecture him
about the smell of booze
or talk about the seed
he left long ago untended.
Aging father with my own
flaws of the heart,
I am content to see him
resting among the carrots
and peas. It is enough
to listen to him sip
the air in the innocence
of his concentration,
doing his best with the weeds.
-Wesley McNair