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How strangely life will turn around, reverse, then come again
I remember how he would tiptoe in, from a warm and downy bed
He’d  wink at me, then beckon me, while twinkling stars peeked in
In kitchen light, a bite to eat, a midnight snack, he said

I would pour the milk, and he would smile, then carefully tear the bread
The staff of life, a simple thing, these two small bowls of wheat
My Dad and I, the broken bread, with milk on top, or cream instead
A bit of sugar or honey dripped, to make it slightly sweet

Such a little thing, so comforting, and helped us both to sleep
And in my care, his dwindling  years…especially at the end
He was fading then, no appetite, few foods that he could eat
Soft bread I’d make, with milk poured in, would help us think of then

I’d sit upon his bed and talk, and help him spoon some in
The things in life turn inside out,  somehow come back again


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