My father is leaving.
He ebbs and flows—
we call him back,
but each time he slips
a little further.
He is tired, he says, impatient
for his journey home.
I urge on him just one more day
and he laughs.
I suppose he wonders, for what?
Is there any good thing he can teach
that he hasn’t lived for my instruction
every other day of thousands?
Perhaps just this:
How to let go without regret,
to suppress love like the moon
that pulls and wills him always
back to shore.