My Chinese father bows
at the morning sun and
looks up to touch the final
bloomed flower of fall
He calls my name
to join him in prayer,
to chant the mantra of
my need. He beckons me.
We walk through the meadows
and find the deadheads of
flowers. He takes a small
cotton sack and fills it with seed.
Next year, he tells me, tipping
the cut flowers upside down
He takes my hand and leads me to
garden where we kneel
in prayer. My father puts the
sack of seeds in my pocket.
We listen to the chanting of
monks and I understand what
they are saying. My father takes
me home and feeds
me sticky rice, and steamed
fish, Moon cakes on a bamboo
plate. My father tells me
to remember the last flower.
the last prayer, the last sunset.
He writes my name in bold black ink
painted characters I want to understand.
Louise Marie DelSanto
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seeds/
