Bruce.
for
Dad
the pop and flutter of that red ripe
strawberry in your brown chest
where our fears rest near his small white
spot children’s fingers what
makes that white
dad it just is is what
it is
that is what it is
always know it set in stone
it grew within us tot to teen
death’s inside us there
unseen time never has to go unfelt
not when heartbeats can be
held like hands heard
listened to like song
life is gloriously long
ReplyDeleteor as Manning Clark always said / wrote
life is immense
!
powerful stuff
That is so good, Kerri.
ReplyDeleteKerri, I love this poem. It’s beautiful.
ReplyDeleteand a glorious last line for a moving poem
ReplyDelete