There is a photograph taken
when I was four or so.
I’m sitting on my father’s shoulders.
He is standing in the huge garden
where he loved to go
on summer Saturday afternoons.
On his head is his standard issue
feedcap. Both of us are grinning
at the photographer, my mother.
Too young to think of winning
or losing or what it means to worry,
I am sitting on my father’s shoulders,
held firmly and securely by
by his strong arms. I know
I can not, will not, fall.
My trust is absolute.
But I am only four or so,
sitting on my father’s shoulders.