on the frozen Mississippi,
my father was swimming beside
the wide-eyed fishes
beneath my feet,
watching my steps
as they carried me past
a dormant moonlit farm
with an amber bulb
burning above
an open, broken porch.
The river bends with
arthritic joints in winter
but the power below
the frozen surface
is always there:
ice that lights
a thousand cities.
I can not see him
or hear him
but I know he is swimming,
splashing,
tracing my tracks,
trying to understand
this midnight journey.