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
Copyright Protected, ID 06- 1365-868-20 (reprint)
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Constance La France