my father’s hair is summer grass

the smell of summer grasses

always makes me think of my father.

and that first summer I spent

with him when I was barely 12,

before my moon and before

any of  us were too broken.

i longed to wrap my arms around his waist

when he rode his motorcycle

up and down those gravel roads

taking turns too fast so I would

have to hold on tight and it was

before helmets so I let his long

hair fly into my face and I could

smell the summer grass there

in his strands

and now as I grow older

I can see that his nose is my nose

and his forearms are also mine

and his mystical self so much

the wild child and scholar

has been passed to me

without so much of a

hey here you go kid

or a warning that his

nature would be imparted

to me in restlessness.

one day I told his mother

my dear grandma

that I would rather

perch atop a hill

and hunker down the years

through than work

in white mans world again.

she said:

just like your father.

Shiloh Sophia

West Marin, California

(look how we are sitting almost exactly alike!)