Meanwhile

My tears, to my father, smelled like the field
at his fingertips in early morning light
that kind that doesn't drain but lingers.

He was in his mid thirties, a practicing doc
who discovered what his weight against floor
with his kneed caps in between felt like,
and I in another state, a baby. Comprehension
abstract and fuzzy.

Only playing in the snow was solace on the solstice
the way Antarctica can make you feel small and suffocate you
at different times, he was preparing for business
plotting the piling of money whereas I didn't even know what money was
or how it can delude you or save you or both at the same time.

It was a full mean year of skin cells pulled apart
at their plasma seems and nose bleeds
and dancing for no good reason except for sadness
and tunnels that shifted for all the wrong seasons
so things flooded immensely and dread wailed
like thimble thread that doesn't want to be cut
and so it holds on without knowing.