My Philosophical Father

We sat together in the living room, father and son

And he talked about the latest book he’d read.

That night it was Emerson;

I’d written a dozen papers about him in college,

But tonight I pretended to know nothing of the “language

Of natural fact”, and instead, I humored the philosopher

By allowing him to teach me the new idea over again.

I wanted him to have the enjoyment of knowing

Everything, at least for the moment. The way

His shaggy eyebrows bunched up into his forehead

Recalled to me the time he stopped to point out

A deformed tree bending over a pond, and by the heaviness of its branches,

Barely able to hold itself up—

My philosophical father, always marveling,

Always astonished, asked me, “How do you think that tree

stays alive?”

CRA

11/27/2006

8/26/2007