When You Don’t Think I Am Looking
I still notice you—at home
in your elemental forest, bending
like a tree, the sawdust of your task,
a tornado of determination.
Weeds surrender under the wheels
of your old tractor, both of you, a rare breed.
I see every blade of grass in order, each rock
at home in its placement. Light
throws its brightest glow for the son
we both wish was yours. I watch the way
your arms lift, how much you can carry,
how far you have gone between the time
you kiss me good morning and
finally collapse into bed. Every mile
is a mirror reflecting who you are: a man
who thinks to slow is to stop,
and to stop is to give up. When you don’t
think I am looking, I still see you.
I am there watching and loving you
for everything you are.
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