To My Father. Winter's Winding Game

To My Father

A fleeting thought thus cannot grasp the fantasy
That pierced the chambers of your soul at will,
Yet none can say the forward path is empty
To stretch the rapture in the silence, still…

But what are sparks of light amidst the gloaming
If such a weary flight is long and low?
And if the path is swept by drifting snowing,
You will not ford the lake across the flow…

You can’t convey the thrill in shifting chords like
That spill away like waves of trembling grace.
You won’t dissolve in watercolored fjords
Where transparent walls of surf embrace…

No lesson can be drawn from just a gesture
Where fire and sincerity take hold.
Nor will you end the vain and restless quest
Where parallels with vibrant cloth unfold…

In twilight of illusions, you won’t find then

The hidden sense that fills the light of day,
But through the lofty tropes within the mind,
Perhaps your heart will brush the gloom away?..

How else? For love is stronger, ever-brightened,
The sense of sacred feelings stays the same,
And even frost on windowpanes tonight
Will weave into this winter’s winding game.