My Father and his Donkey

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Such a bond between them, as if they’d been born

in the same field. Yellow grasses of summer leaned in

on their private conversations. They tipped their heads together

in Arabic, in longing, in donkey understanding. And the air softened.

Never once did my father say to his children, you will have

to go on a long time without me, but surely he knew that,

giving plenty for remembering.

His confidence in simple goodness, carrots in a pocket,

Speak out, tell the truth. After he died, his drawers already

empty, as if long before he’d given up the extras, and kept

two pairs of socks. I keep his refusal to be bowed

by the endless unfairness of the world. He called his

donkey with two syllables, and the donkey came.