Father

FATHER Which love is not a struggle to the mind? Tis easier to think love glides along, regardless of a road not there to find, or never caring what is right or wrong. One love, of child, a father's steady hand, protecting innocence, through many years as if he knew the way, and had it planned, to heal each mortal wound as it appears, as if all things begin with his okay, the good, the joy of life to build upon; demanding right, and hoping in some way he's always with you, even when he's gone. The banged up knee, your losing of a friend, are yours to feel, but his to comprehend. © ron wilson aka veebdosa the doylestown poet