The Old Scribe
If he were alive now, he would indeed be old,
my father, the scribe who held the code.
Genetic link passed on to me,
arranging words like these you see.
I would see him, pen in hand, late at night,
writing beneath the desk lamp light.
He showed me once a poem sublime,
mundane words transformed in rhyme.
I thought no more as it was past bedtime,
leaving him for the bedroom that was mine.
Skipping over that carpet frayed,
wishing now that I had stayed.
He died years later before his time.
His amazing poem held in my mind.
Until as an adult that seed has bloomed,
generation to generation, womb to womb.
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