How many times have I embraced
that father of mine, arms enlaced;
failing to notice before me,
eyes of blue, that tell a story.

Peering into the eyes of blue
and the depth of each wrinkle, too.
Besieged by crevices of pain,
amid clouds of past tears and shame.

Looking deep into the abyss
where love, kindness and joy exists.
A legion of vast compassion
survived the fights and frustration.

Childhood memories floats on by
showcasing my father and I.
Reading books and wiping tears,
sound advice soothing ghastly fears.

December 17, each year,
I celebrate my father dear.
The life he’s lead, the life he gives,
the best he has, the best he lives.

A father’s eyes does not convey
a straight path, want or way.
Nor do they convey perfection,
but respect and grateful life reflection.