It seems another century we met
choosing paths as purposes
one to return, one to adventure,
in a chance of family conflict.


Our shadows growing hot
we pointed,
each sure as our genes
that the direction took would be reward
and, either high or low, the road: salvation.


The history of our ancestors thus
made crossing the water
or following the flow
a link not desperate as deliberate:
the parting of son from father.


Now I like, no love, that moment:
worn in filtered memory light and impossible greens,
as would a new parent flinch at the awkward first steps
of a daughter or son across the thread
that stretches seamless
and ties, heart to heart,
the child to the tree.


And now, too, I am eager in success
to hug and pull that lineage taut
to soar the familial kite above the glade
where our arms crossed
as proof of two intersecting lives as parallel
and separate trials mutual.