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A clutter of wood and dust and cobwebby corners,
And dappled sun shining through dirty windows;
On his work table a drawing; a project in progress,
And tin cans and jars of nails and screws on shelves.

Tools on hooks waiting for hands that will never come,
I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace;
And I cannot help thinking, who will want all this,
He was a simple man, my father, and I loved him so.

His death was fast, no one expected him to leave,
In a blink he was gone, and all I have are memories;
I linger there with the dust that floats in the sun,
And I weep and weep for what I have lost this day.

Then, I pick up his pencil and on his paper I write,
I write this poem of pain and it is the beginning;
The beginning of my writing as an adult with soul,
I leave the child, that was me, and become a poet,

Today.

_________________________
July 21, 1997


Poetry/Free Verse/Dad's Workshop
Copyright Protected, ID 1997-714-811-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written under Pseudonym

Entered in the contest,  Celebrating My Fav's,
sponsor, Andrea Dietrich

First Place
________________________
Entered in the contest, Any Poem, #36
(a poem that placed in one of her past centests)
sponsor, Poet Destroyer

First Place
________________________
For the contest, A poem written before Poetry Soup, 
sponsor, Poet Destroyer

Fourth Place

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