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My Father's Generation

My father's generation
is folding back into the earth.
They take with them
their colorful vernacular
their jitterbug and swing
their peculiar longings
their own ways of naming joy
and their own sorrows
never fully expressed.

They take, too
the pride in their great war
the century's hump
up to which flowed their youth
and away from which flowed ours:
they march with this pride
to the grave
though fallen from formation
my father's generation now folds
back into the earth.

And you, my father I see
as a diminishing figure
going down one of the dusty prairie
roads which led from
your childhood.

You told me recently
that you rode out there all alone
and I seized the chance to say
that one of my favorite things, too,
is to ride the highway alone.
When we find a commonality
we take it with quiet gladness
in the manner of sharing
a simple meal.

And so I see you on that road,
and you turn and wave -- the sun
is shining -- it is a hot afternoon,
your figure is like a mirage --
tantalizing and unreachable
as the recent past.

You smile as if to say,
that all that was not spoken
can nonetheless
be understood,
and all I can do is  wait
for my heart
to believe it.