Loss

I lost my Dad before I was born.
He was just twelve when he snuck his first drink.
He told me the story one day as we talked.  Through liquor-slurred speech,
"That first sip made me want to do a handstand.
It felt better than anything ever had."

I never knew his fully grown self.

Like a green apple fallen to ground,
My Dad was never ready.
Yet hope finds lodging in seeds.
Even a half-rotted apple left for worms,
Carries the seed,
Plants the hope.
Even the wind that whips to blow that seed,
Can gently land it in it's place
Of rebirth.