For years I have watched my father move like a river
smoothing over rocks
and making round the sharp edges;
flowing through twists and turns
gracefully as a measure of time.

He is deeper in places
where most can’t meet or distinguish–
a floor that’s hard to touch or see
but must be a pleasant place to drown.

For years the river has swelled with rain
and maintained depth through the drought;

for years, the winter river has never been frozen altogether—
its lower layers never subdued to stillness when the cold comes,
yet stirring still.

But this river in particular—
this long, deep river with unmeasured depth and countless vortexes
and variations and bends,
has been hard to watch.

The winters come colder now
and the water fights to advance underneath the layers of ice.

A winter unkind is the death of a moving river—
sometimes predicted by time,
other times discordant and unexpectedly fast.

But all the time,
everytime—
(I must remind myself that this is the thing about fathers):
the river is the last province to freeze when winter makes it gain,
and always the first one thaw,
with the triumph of spring.