There was no temple around
and he didn't miss one
Father simply bowed
in the open and started working.

Every year he sowed wheat
in the dark brown soil
of his fields

Before he buried the first seed
for his family
he took a fistful
scattered it and said
grow for the birds.

The second he scattered
for the wild animals, and the third
for the travelers who might
pass by and want to
nibble raw grains

As he started
pouring the seed behind the plowshare
pulled by a pair of white oxen
I walked beside him
captivated by the opening and
closing of the furrow.
Present and past happening
in the same instant.

Later when he
moved to the Fraser Valley farms
of British Columbia
he picked blueberries
Sometimes
he paused took a fistful
of the fruit
hurled in the air and uttered,
this one for birds.

a whole bunch of song birds
ran riot in his head.
Beaks blue with half eaten berries.