Who sculpts my bent,
my leanings?
A grim-hunched father,
desultory,
complaining,
hard-wired to paint
grey for green,
color blind
to all that thrives–
joyful noises
hope in humankind
gladness of the sun
gratitude for breath
upright posture.
Not everything falls.
Can he fathom?
The miracle we stand
right angles to the heavens.
In the gaze of the other 
