Turnings

for my father


In gardens he still

works the ground until it gives
and turns beneath the steady weight
of the till.

My father, stronger than the devil, never
knew to whisper soft to daughters
who needed him.


But to the fields
of dill and strawberries and sometimes
rows and rows of giant
flowers I never could name, he
spoke gently, making everything turn
softly toward the sound of him.


On summer nights he let me
ride the tractor wheel
and I watched earth turn
while he sat silently behind,
the statue of my childhood,
whispering soft to the rising stalks of corn
while guiding the course of the tractor
and my life.


A quiet northern breeze always came
gently from somewhere beyond
dark red blueberry fields,

blowing his breath into my hair.

c. Melissa K. Dalman, 1993