My father is the football ref
who is always running around
with the red card in his hand.
A constant reminder to the players
that they are only playing by his grace.
When I am going to sleep I jungle words in my head
I have this in common with my Father.
But when I ask him to tell about the trees
he is silent
and I talk about the birch outside my window
that is taller than the house itself
and when I sit at the kitchen table the testament
snakes its way aound the trunk.
© Ida Linde, Maskinflickans testamente (2006)