Conversations with my father,
Bittersweet, and maybe sad
Conversations with my father
Talks that we never had.
Companionably silent
As we set off walking
Neither of us known
For doing too much talking
Down Lambwath road
To Billy Bulson’s farm,
Each with a broken 12 bore
Tucked safely underarm.
I was at his hospital bedside
On the day that he died
Once alone in the car
I gave in and cried.
I am now past that age
And like him slowing down.
Maybe that’s the reason now
I feel him there and around.
We talk about the garden,
Always his joy and pride.
He was never the man
To spend his time inside.
We talk of this and that
In our lazy easy way
And I suppose we chat now
Nearly every single day.
Maybe it’s because I’m older,
That much nearer the other end
But there we sit and chat
Like two good old friends.
Conversations with my father
Bitter sweet and maybe sad,
Conversations with my father,
Talks I wish we’d really had
I sat alone by the sea
when a snail waved to me.
She politely asked “Is this seat free?”
“Why yes,” I said, “ certainly.”
“I've traveled forth all lifelong
seeking somewhere to belong.
I've sought wide and sought long
for a place to sing my song."
We sat a while companionably
and watched the waves absently.
When I again glanced amicably,
her abandoned shell lay silently.
Holding her empty shell to my ear.
I heard her message most sincere
Sounds of the sea resounded clear –
"Thanks to you, I sing my song here!"
All day, if as far, a world
Circles back round again
Oh! That bold vision to regain.
Pursued, undimmed, on shore.
Sympathetically blown along.
Companionably lonesome!
Of what, sea-raised, but wholesome
Haunts a heart evermore.
November is sweet, sunshine through bare trees, dry brown and
fungus-free leaves companionably visiting among the dead
as I did yesterday our town's small graveyard military dads who recently
died lie under polished stones embossed with actual photos of
themselves and their wives flowers and plastic totems within a
miniature picket fence overflowing with the emotions love and
grieving of the living
beside or not far from simple wafer-thin old moss-covered stones on
which I could not read the names.
Such peace I realized which may be found around any rock or tree has
escaped me while I pursue my particular happiness and our particular
war,
and such a blessing awaits me, too.
Soft curly fur ball
Lying beneath where I sit
Companionably
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