Dear Son

A poem for Father’s Day

Photo credit: Fir0002/Flagstaffotos

Dear Son

The funny thing is they charge you 
for heat. If you’re hungry, 
they charge you for apples and oranges,
                      strawberries—
what your mother calls ichigo.
They even charge you for water
in most places now. 
                     Thankfully, 
it still falls from the sky, drop 
by drop, and flows down
the ravine near our home. 
                      Dear son, 
sometimes the creek goes 
from a dry whisper to a gushing 
shout in mere seconds—
                      after the rain, 
after the clouds settle in, 
when you can measure the time 
between the lightning 
                      and the thunder 
                      in less than a clap, 
or the thickness of a penny.