Wednesday, like all days, is a good day for poetry.
I wrote this a long time ago about my younger son after my father had died.
Papa, Dancing
He is in your eyes,my child--
sapphire pools wide with wonder, reflecting the sun--
a thousand fleeting torches, dancing
as he must have danced in the days before
a you or a me,
arms raised to embrace each diminutive ray
filtering through branches to weave forever into ebony,
to sparkle again--
in your eyes.
I wrote this a long time ago about my younger son after my father had died.
Papa, Dancing
He is in your eyes,my child--
sapphire pools wide with wonder, reflecting the sun--
a thousand fleeting torches, dancing
as he must have danced in the days before
a you or a me,
arms raised to embrace each diminutive ray
filtering through branches to weave forever into ebony,
to sparkle again--
in your eyes.
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