Written, July 10, 1997
Poetry/Verse/A Father's Day Poem Copyright Protected, ID 15-1653-919-06 All Rights Reserved, 2024, Constance La France
A clutter of wood and dust in cobweb 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 with a true poet's soul, I leave the child within me, and become a poet, today.
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