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Sonnet for My Father

A child again, I run after bright dreams that have become my father, reach and tug at his shirt (flannel with tattered seams); bourbon and musty books cling to his hug. Great adventures my father calls these days: voyages to London aboard a photo setting sail, triple chocolate ice-cream cones, treasure caves fashioned of cardboard boxes and junk mail. But he has climbed the last green hill alone, somehow younger and straighter than I recall; and I wake not a child, but grown, to brown September mornings, not golden fall. First light: familiar blue eyes gaze into mine. My daughter laughs and my father winks through time.