for all the fathers who show up
In the Shade of the Tree Ferns
No path here.
Just damp earth,
moss on stone,
and the slow, deliberate hush
of growing things.
Tree ferns arc overhead,
fronds wide as arms,
filtering light
into something sacred.
I brought my sons here,
when their legs were small
and full of mud.
They squatted in the black soil,
drew patterns with sticks,
found joy
in a single wriggling earthworm.
The ferns, the filtered light—
none of it mattered.
Only dirt,
and the way it stuck
to their knees,
their laughter,
my heart.
Now I pass alone.
The moss is thicker.
Their prints long gone.
But I see them—
the shape they made
in that moment,
still held
in the hush beneath the fronds.
And I smile,
because some things—
mud,
love,
the wonder of being their dad—
cling forever.
Ryan Stone
This one is from my new poetry collection – Love, and Other Ordinary Miracles – soon to be released on Amazon.
The Way They Run to Her
It’s not a question,
just instinct.
A scraped knee,
a bad dream,
the kind of ache
they can’t name yet.
They run to her
like rivers find the sea.
Like they always knew the way.
She doesn’t brace.
Just opens
arms, voice,
that face that says
I’ve got you.
There’s magic in it.
Not the wand-waving kind,
but the kind that knows
which night light to leave on,
how to mend what can’t be seen,
how to be
every kind of strong
without ever raising her voice.
I watch them fold into her,
safe and certain.
And I think,
this is how I learned
what love looks like.
Ryan Stone
Letter to My Sons
Boys,
When the fire comes—and it will—don’t run.
Stand your ground. Feel the heat. Know what’s worth burning.
Not everything you carry needs to be saved.
You’ll be told to move fast, talk loud, win more.
Don’t listen to that.
The quiet men are the ones you want near when things fall apart.
If your hands shake, that’s fine.
So did mine.
Do the work anyway.
Let yourself be broken by love at least once.
If you’re lucky, it’ll teach you where you end and someone else begins.
But leave them space. Don’t take what isn’t offered. Ever.
When loss comes, don’t try to beat it.
Feel it. Let it hollow you out clean.
Then build something inside the space it left.
The world will try to make you hard.
Let it make you solid instead.
Be unmovable when it counts.
But stay soft in the places that matter—your hands, your eyes, your heart.
People will try to name you.
Let your actions do it first.
Carry stories.
Especially ones that don’t paint you as the hero.
And remember: pain handled right becomes a kind of map.
Look out for each other.
That’s not advice, that’s bedrock,
even when you disagree, especially when you don’t speak.
You’ve always got each other’s back. That’s blood. That’s the deal.
And when no one notices you did the right thing—
good.
That means you’re growing into your name.
I’ll see you on the ridge.
Love,
Dad
Fall
amber leaves
tumbling down the path—
empty nest
Ryan Stone
Priceless
At the garage sale
Cherished toys in an old box
A man asks, how much?
Ryan Stone
Wild is the Wind
She sets down her pen
Chaos and joy tumble in
Her boys and the wind
Ryan Stone
days of stone 