Dawn
by Michael Escoubas

Dad’s favorite thing was rousting me out of bed
early on autumn days—

I remember his honeyed voice …
The world has a gift for you!

After sipping hot chocolate with big
marshmallows that left a sticky moustache,

we wore light jackets; strolled
down a well-worn path to the water’s edge,
my hand, biscuit-white, lost in his.

Where’s my gift Papa?
Rising and pointing eastward …

There, my son … the gift of new beginnings,
the day’s first signal that life is good.

We sat close, listening
to the call of loons, to the lazy lapping

of lake water … that is how I learned
about the best gift of all,

which had nothing to do with the dawn—
it was his voice, honey-smooth,

his presence, not accounted for in words …
my hand, biscuit-white, lost in his.



 

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