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For Father

A clutter of wood and dust in cobwebby corners, and dappled sun shining through dirty windows; on his work table a drawing: a project in progress, and tin cans and jars for nails and screws wait. Tools on hooks rest for hands that will never come, I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace; and I cannot help thinking, who will want all this, he was a simple man my father, and I loved him so. His death was fast, no one expected him to leave, in a blink he was gone, and all I have are memories; I linger there with the dust that floats in the sun, and I weep and weep for what I have lost this day. I did not want to let go of his cold hand ever, and as I held it I recalled all our forest adventures; all the times we talked: but what is written by God, can never be unwritten, so I had to let go of his hand. And I picked up his pencil and on his paper I wrote, I wrote this poem of pain and it was the beginning; the beginning of my writing with a true poet's soul, I had found my poetic voice in his death ... _________________________________ June 20, 2021, Father's Day For Father Always and Forever Poetry/Verse/For Father Copyright Protected, ID 06- 1365-868-20 (reprint) All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France

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