My Father is in the rain
And bends the legitimate lines of my face into curve and artful thought
Stands behind both pragmatism
and delusion
With nudge or gentle hold

I pray I allow my hips his compass
My footfall to align with his

My insecurities
My fears
My wavering doubts
Plucked and given freely to open palm

The artistry in those lines
The enormity in that hand that spreads eternity into the un fathomable

I breathe there

I smile
And I breathe there
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