Dad's Work Shed
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Let me tell you a story . . .
about Dad's work shed that I hold in my heart
oh, I can still smell the scent of wood and dust in the air
the many cobwebs in corners and crooks of the old shed
and the dappled sun flooding in through windows . . .
he had a scarred and scored wooden work table
with countless tin cans of nails and screws
and Dad was always working on a new plan
his coffee cup forgotten and ignored
and I would bring him flowers . . .
precious dandelions, buttercups and daisies
which he would place in a container of some sort
smiling, he would lift me up to sit beside him
for hours we would ponder his scribbled sketches
oh, the grand ideas he had . . .
I still have those doodles and outlines as memories
and I look at them sometimes with tears
and the lazy afternoons would pass in the quiet shed
for me and my Dad
later we would sit on our rusty porch swing
side by side, just swinging . . . not talking
I would hold his hand so tight
like I never wanted to let it go
but, God had a plan
written in the book of destiny
and who am I
to question what is written by God
so with tears I let go
of my Dad's hand one sad day
____________________________
April 14, 2013 - Repost and Edit August 28, 2022
Poetry/Narrative/Dad's Work Shed
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1483-999-14
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted to the Premiere contest, 2022 Poetry Marathon, Mile 13
sponsor, Mark Toney, Judged 09/11/2022
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2022
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