|The Green Man.|
Regular readers are aware of my inexplicable habit of composing poetry based on random coincidences of the calendar. I have done it again. Here is the incriminating evidence.
Summer Solstice/Father’s Day
June 21, 2015
Perhaps, after all, I am the Green Man,
and my Father before me
who took to the woods with rod and rifle
and his father before him
who grew strawberries by the porch
and the fathers before him
who were orchardmen in Ohio
and way back those earlier yet
who pulled stones from Yorkshire fields
for their masters.
Save the complexion, I look the part enough
with my shaggy goatee, wild eyebrows,
and neglected hair which could sprout
oak and ivy.
But my wild forest years are well behind me,
I plant nothing but my feet on the sidewalk
and my ass in a desk chair,
I raise nothing but questions, concerns,
my fertility was snipped away
long decades past
my virility—don’t make me laugh,
no Goddess awaits in a glade
under the triumphant Sun.
Perhaps I am not the Green Man after all
just an old fool and fraud,
but, hey, isn’t that all that is needed
to be just Dad instead.