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Written: May 30th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Silent One Quote: "My mother was destiny. My father, grace." By Rumi ************************** He was no eidolon, but a telluric force keeping his grounding on, never veering off course. Yet restless as cabotage winds across oceans, carried the world in his motions. His laugh—obstreperous and wild, a gale where rafters rattled, Yet his taciturn silence, deep and mild, calmed the miasma where doubt battled. Clumsy of tenderness, devout, learned late how to cradle. His heavy hands, like a broad ladle, became limpid, flowing rivers, guiding me past venal mirrors, and maelstroms meant to wither. A ragamuffin teacher, pugnacious with life’s features, fustigated blatherskite shudders, turning them into golden treasure. Coins of courage for the dreamer, minted in the furnace of his gaze. In the penumbra of his presence, a shudder rippled at vain sight— the void held its equanimous essence, a reverent tremor of sublime light. Whispering secrets of the sunken stars' vicinity, veiled within the ideology of his scars' trinity. He was besotted with love, austerely self-denying as he drove. An erudite cartographer—a heart of dove tracing the ancestral cradle, arched above By the iron of peace, and velvet glove. Carving a haven from havoc, and a grove. Dear Father— my zeitgeber, my grimoire of guidance, my incarnadine horizon. Even now, your mellowness lingers. A tenderness— sardonic, stretching into the infinite.

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