13th November
A dandelion seed ball -
how fragile it is floating
the still air. I reach out
but it somersaults
in the disturbance
of my moving hand.
I want to hold it
but it keeps floating away.
It moves on the slightest
puff of my breath.
I've caught it !
cupped in my closed hands -
but it's no longer whole
only a collection
of parts, fragments
of what was,
a memory now.
Hell…it's the 13th today !.
My fathers birthday.
He's been dead
twenty seven years.
I should have told him
that I loved him
far more than I did.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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