My father speaks of soil and winter wheat,
Of how much rain it takes to make things sweet.
He speaks of cycles, patience, sun, and seed,
A language born of gesture and of need.
He looks at my soft hands and shakes his head,
And asks about the strange new life I've led.
I speak of data, streams that rise and fall,
A market crash that could destroy it all.
I speak of code, of deadlines, and of stress,
A language made of logic and success.
He listens with a kindness in his eye,
As if he's watching worlds he can't get by.
I show him graphs to prove that I am fine;
He points to a small cloud, a hopeful sign
Of rain to come. We sit here, side-by-side,
With a whole generation as a wide divide.
He talks of roots, and I of building wings,
We love each other through the words we cannot bring
Ourselves to fully know or understand,
A foreigner in my own father’s land.
Poet's Note
This poem is very personal to me. It's not about conflict between generations, but about the loving, sometimes sad, gap in understanding. Many of us live in a digital, abstract world, while our parents' world was physical and tangible. We can love each other deeply, yet speak fundamentally different languages based on our life experiences. The poem tries to capture that beautiful, bittersweet feeling of being perfectly connected by heart, but separated by worlds.