For my Father on the occasion of his 70th birthday. Who strides before me, always. Brave and full of love.

Step by step,
foot in front of foot.
Everything begins this way.
A few scrawled sums, 
pencil sharpened to a quill.
The balletic, balanced sway.

He shows me how
the world is big.
But that we only know it to be so,
because we use ourselves
to span its size,
toe in front of heel in front of toe.

A yard - the spread of arms
that hold me tight.
A foot - each mark a measure.
An inch - the thumb
that grips my hand as we search
rock pools for sunken treasure.

He digs deep narrow holes,
and fits a row of posts,
plumb along the boundary line,
and says, “Don’t forget,
our hearts are our own.
That is where our freedom lies.”

He goes before me,
deliberate and keen.
And always will. Striding on his own,
brave and full of love. 
There is nowhere I can go
where he has not already gone.

And there he pauses,
leaning in repose.
Wiping his brow.
Catching his breath,
while he waits for me to tally
the steps behind him now.

He already knows.
He is singing inward,
“I have the answer.
I could have told you so.”
But he lets me count them on my own,
and never lets it show.