FATHERS DANCE

Fathers dance with your sons:     forever the child
in the cradle swing of your arms:     Fathers grow
into the trees your sons will clamber
up to see the sky so blue so closer:
Fathers swing your sons, the wind
of your branches' swinging, your sons
from your long and manly arms swinging
up higher, higher to the sun:
Fathers drop your pencils and briefcases,
your calculators and your notepads,
your lunchpails, your uniform hats:
Fathers dance with your sons, around
and around the rugs of your livingrooms,
the small triangular parks outside your offices:
as in the marketplace with the other men,
as in the hogan with the other men, the kiva,
the elders' hut with the other men; as in the firelit
circle of the early days with the other men,
as in the boardroom, think tanks,
and conference rooms with the other men,
as in the tabernacles and the sanctuaries
with the other men:     Fathers dance
with your sons, your sons's hair flying,
their breath catching in joy, mouths wide
in grinning awe:     Fathers drop your plans, your arms
to your sons and be
the dancing wind
to drive away all wars,
to lift us
          up squealing to the light.

by James McEuen

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