Leaping into Light

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Leaping into Light
Springing from her lap he leaps,
my father, into light;
Grandmother holds him tight;
and Grandad penned the frame with time:
“MAR 30-1926”
and birthday “7-MONTHS.”
But all this fails to hold him back:
he leaps to clear the frame
with head tipped back and arms spread wide,
ablaze with joy, clothes billowing white,
ascending into light.
Engulfed by light, his hands fly out
and lose the steering wheel;
the big truck on the narrow road
assists his exit from the frame.
Full fifty years passed since he stood
and leapt to reach the light;
but human bones, not made for flight,
will ever turn back to the earth.
Not till the unexpected door
flings open, flooding us with light,
will we be swept beyond the frame
to find, at last, our true delight.
My father waits for me at home.