A Poem for Papa

By Kjell Fenn 1/14/09

In the early morning silence that encamps around me, the scarlet sky shouts heralds your glory,
stretched clouds proclaim of your majesty.

Like an army prepared for battle, arrayed in the colors of its master, banners of war waving frantically in
the arms of the wind, horses clomping the soft earth and falcons circling in the North, you, Oh Loving
Father, surround me.

The city of refuge beckons me come, bids me entrance, sings my name with melody and harmony of
such beauty and light, like flying threads stretching and playing, dancing with one another as they tease
and tickle, weaving in and out giggling, laughing colors forming a brilliant patterned tapestry, my
clenched hands release the fear so tightly held.

The worn path leads to the doors of the mighty fortress, that hopeful place. Chasing from afar and near,
without and within, the defeated enemy presses on to reclaim its prize. As I near the majestic, oaken
doors, they swing open, letting the fresh perfumed air wash me, fill me, cleanse me. The enemy stands
confused, daunted by the sight of grace and love, they shout and scream and curse. Then He comes.
Papa.

You stand near me, push my sobbing head into your powerful, iron-like chest so I can feel your
breathing, hear your heart thumping a rhythm that sounds like my name. It is your son, charging, as fast
as the wind, in full battle armor. His steed’s steps crush the earth, shake it to the core. His war cry is so
strong, so full of fury and absolute power that I bury my head into your chest, trembling. The battle is
finished in a word.