man hands waiting senior
  November 9
— Byron Hoot

I grieved and mourned you a long
time before I could celebrate your
life letting memory and desire and longing 
teach me how to dance to music
only I could hear.
I agreed with all that was said
at your funeral:
what a man you were,
what a husband, father,
preacher, friend
but that loss did not get beyond
the obvious to memories,
moments no-one else 
could know.
I mourned for nine years
before the urge to dance
to your life appeared and my
heart smiled taking in that steeled
patience of an ultimate trust
that as things were so they were to be,
the acceptance of, refusal 
to reject anything.
The way you'd help Mom hold
a piece of cloth to make a dress,
the grin and mischief of God
in your eyes,
the kiss of greeting and good-bye
on my neck,
your voice, the measured beat
of your preaching voice. . . 
Today, I will dance and sing
and cry a little,
hope that grin and those eyes
are a family thing.
And I will see into the nature 
of things far enough away to trust
what I don't know, say,
with your, "We'll see." as if
we've just said, "Amen."