Give me back my father walking the stables,
     with sawdust and hay clinging to his boots.

Give me back his hand-hewed tools,
     his saddle and his lariats.
Give me his daydreams on lined paper.

I don’t understand this uncontainable grief.
Whatever you had that never fit,
     whatever else you needed, believe me.

My father, who provided for many,
     always had the time to squat down at your side
     and listen to your dreams.