My Father's Pen
My Father’s Pen
Drizzle turning sleet.
Window pane cold
as he rests his cheek against it.
Coke fire,
astringent bitter warmth filling the room.
On the table
amber in cut glass, no ice,
next to the tablet.
An old pen
cradled in the arthritic hand.
From long ago; given
him by his father before him,
to cradle, to write.
Now his to make words,
to paint letter pictures,
to fashion the stories.
The words swirl and loop,
playing endlessly.
Atonal but rich,
they form a trellis
upon which to paint life.
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