Dave

Shake his hand
and you’d feel the knot;
his knuckles were twisted
but his spirit was not.
As a younger man
he built the roads,
as an older man
he somehow turned them all to gold.
Always the storyteller—
we listened to his tales.
He gave the plane its wings
he gave the ship its sails
and he’d laugh at each
as he remembered them.
How his life was full;
how we used to laugh along with him.
He said that life
was like a man who owned two hounds;
one was kind and gentle
one would bite whoever was around
and the secret
lay in learning how to know
which to feed
and which to let go.
He was a father
and he fed his children well
upon the joy of his faith
upon water from the living well.
Shake his hand
you’d feel the knot,
knuckles twisted
but the spirit, not.
As a younger man
he built the roads,
as an older man
he paved the way for us to go.