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A Father's Day Poem

 

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.

Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2024

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