a father's hand

In the widening smile of childhood,
innocence rests her feet,
and in every stumble, trip or fall,
the lessons are not so much learned,
as tested, tried and tested again.
A hand is offered for unsure steps,
gaps in the rocks require experience,
and the sureness of a father's grasp.

Footprints erode too fast,
masking the steps we take.
I wish I could excavate the paths
my father took me down.
Memory has been far too fickle,
choosing to read and reread
files that prove his imperfections.

But his imperfections are mine now,
and in them I finally see his beauty.
So if he ever holds his hand out to me again,
I will grasp it,
and help him across the rocks.