Dirt Dad

Each summer he disappears, stolen
by soil and seeds’ potential.
Some complain about their lot, say
words like deadbeat, opt
out of Father’s Day email ads.
I just watch mine from afar,
attention turned to dirt,
bring new life forth from muck.
And what luck!
When air chills and leaves
crunch again,
he’ll remember this apple’s number;
when I’m slow to answer, say
I didn’t fall far. Nor did he.