father and son

On the floor they sit and play a game,

As light from above spills and floods the frame.

From the half-closed door comes a corner of bright,

And their conversation floats like grass on water light.

They never speak directly of themselves,

For they already know each other's inner selves.

It's their own difficult sides they can't overcome,

As they guard the same river, neither willing to succumb.

Intimate and close, their heads almost touching,

Fingers tapping the floor in unison, contemplating.

Above their heads, a winter sky so deep,

And distant firecrackers like stones in a river, scattered and fleet.