He says they are never good enough,

yet sends me the moon that he sees,

perhaps he held it in his hand before it fell

captured in ripples that landed at his feet.

Weathered and tired at times

I hear in the voice between sentences

the font of a father so far

distance can never keep apart

when we stand beneath the same orb

feeding us with the light she gives.

He captures her, one after another after another

and pockets them in the electric mail

sent with love from somewhere up above

and I smile knowing we share

that same love

the same eyes that see as we look up,

remembering the feelings of forgiveness

for below her

everything is real and sacred

and nothing can ever be hidden from the light

when shared between one soul to another,

like small pebbles in our hands

still warm from love passed

from a father to a daughter

I think they’re beautiful

and a gift that’s always just enough.

My father emailed me yesterday and sent some photos he had taken of the super Moon, as usual saying his skills are lacking, I thought I would share the one I liked best. Men fish below her light and I’m sure the tides were full and deep. I hope they caught a lot, as my father has. I’m proud and honored. They are beautiful to me, reflections in the water, from a man to his daughter.

We are…almost there.

Within each drop lies a reflection

turning inward, backward, forward into

ourselves and all we see,

we are these tiny movements

rippling out to touch the edge of something,

anything, nothing at all

as we return once more to our beginning.

Gravity moves us unknowingly

we turn, spin and begin once again

to the creation like an echo bouncing

off of the cosmic thought.

Sun and moon twirl round so slow

yet we move ever faster as if to go

anywhere, somewhere, here and there

to nowhere and everywhere in between.

To awaken with a thought that comes full circle,

like a deja vu of another time and place

we vaguely recall somewhere within

that it is where we need to be

to feel that sublime peace descend

like snow that falls on a mountain in the distance,

we know it will become the stream

which we cross over

or will move upwards once more to fall

like the gentle misted rain

that cleanses our mind

into a gentle harmony filled

with serenity.