America, I shall love you as

I have loved my immigrant, steel worker father.

From the dew settling in Tierra Verde, Florida,

to the sunrise and sunset in St. Louis, around

hot, concrete Bronx streets to the childhood

sea-shore summer home in Milford, Connecticut,

to the plains of Alva, Oklahoma, and through the

Tennessee mountains, winding, my thoughts search

for your soul. America, you are not dying even as

they bury my father. As they closed the casket,

I thought I saw you smiling.

In those hills, sands, streets, plains, and seas,

movement of life is always present.

In static death my soul

reaches out to touch you.

Wherever you are,

I am.