I write now with my father’s pen
Old steel has assumed my
Ragged pencil’s place
Smooth and worn in my
Calloused fingers.
Daughter at my breast
I remember my father’s stories
As my own swirl and foment
Beneath the creased brow
That is my other inheritance.
Not a gentle man, nor a good one
But a crafter of careful lines
Who spoke limited truth
To lasting effect.
What of him remains
But my own comfortable lies
Sweeter than fact, more palatable
Harder to deny than the
Elusive verisimilitude
Of others.
turmoil
Weather the weather, whatever
Some days I am connected
To all nature on this earth
Yet others I am restless
And unsure about my worth.
Such times of inner turmoil
Can last a goodly while
Yet in the end, the sunshine
Will always make me smile.
