Father Made Mountains into Molehills

By D. J. Harper

We ponder services of love his hands

performed with no complaining breath to blight

our innocence. His oak tree image stands

entwined in these—the pallid winter light

that failed before the tedium of chores,

the milk pails freezing, sun not up when he

would ring with red the stove lids, icy floors

his carpet. Kindling crackled before we

would venture in his wake. But he was gone

with pail and lantern to repeat the day

and sign with frosty breath another dawn.

His giant lantern shadow-forks the hay.

We never knew him weary. Was he ill?

None asked then how he leveled every hill.