Freedom Is a Casualty of Loving

Freedom is a casualty of loving,
As one must freely choose to be unfree,
Taking is, instead of what might be,
Holding onto essence for dear meaning.
Each father ought to be the nearest mountain,
Rock-solid, unmoving in his passion,
'Twixt wind and world the will no will can fashion,
Sustaining innocence through sheer intention.
Depths are in more places than below,
As those who dive for melody well know,
Yielding memories sunlit and certain.
Grandfathers Are Fathers Who Are Grand
Grandfathers are fathers who are grand,
Restoring the sense that our most precious things
Are those that do not change much over time.
No love of childhood is more sublime,
Demanding little, giving on demand,
Far more inclined than most to grant the wings
Allowing us to reach enchanted lands.
Though grandfathers must serve as second fathers,
Helping out with young and restless hearts,
Each has all the patience wisdom brings,
Remembering our passions more than others,
Soothing us with old and well-honed arts.
Grandfathers Are the Mountains We Call Home
Grandfathers are the mountains we call home:
Rugged, rock-faced remnants of our souls,
Alps far grander than our hills and knolls,
Now sheltering the fields through which we roam.
Dare we understand what they have been:
Fathers of the children of our dreams?
As we knew them, bathing in their streams,
They were the wakers of the gods within.
How beautiful they stand, though far away!
Each the guardian of a long lost child,
Reached alone by those whose love has smiled
So happily it danced right through their day.
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