Mods please feel free to move this if it's in the wrong place; this seemed to be the most appropriate place that I currently have access to for posting it.My father turns 75 years old today. That means he was born in September of 1931. He moved to Canada in the mid-fifties. I'm heading up to his place shortly, and I wrote a small 'poem' that I'd like to share with the community.
My father is a tree.
My father is a big lumbering mass of wood.. no, that's not right.
But what my father is, is something people are glad to see.
A friendly face, a welcome smile, planted firmly and holding ground in a world of "Me first" people.
Birds and squirrels flock to him, and he takes the winds blowing through with grace - in fact, he enjoys a good wind, as he sails around on his boat like a log down a river.
The storms of adversity have blown all around him, and indeed through him, and yet still he stands, tall and proud.
Many people have played around him and found shelter under his long strong arms - strong, but yielding, never one to hurt another out of anger and rage.
My father is a tree, tall and proud for everyone to see.
