The water is higher today
I don’t believe it rained hard last night.
A small painted turtle pokes his head
through the bended year old reeds.
Collections of old thoughts pile up inside
like the grasses and sticks of muskrat’s home.
Weighted down by left over seeds
Held back by mumbles of sorrow.
A small painted turtle drops back down,
hides his head from the over burdens of those mumbles.
Wood ducks bob, but nest in trees.
Caution, a product of several generations.
Held back by mumbles, an occasional scream
woven together in this endless stream.
A
Letter to my Dad
I
wish I did have your ashes
in a white box on my desk.1
where I could speak to you in earnest
like we did before you died.
When you told me Arthur held your hand
you knew he needed something from you
you couldn’t even give my mother
who still made your heart beat faster
your jaw drop in awe.
Not that you didn’t love Arthur, you did.
But your heart was already too heavy with
love.
I wish we could speak of the
things that worry us
The things we have no control over
But still want the right decisions to be
made.
Or I want you to start playing the piano,
a sign to bring us near, to sing instead of
mope.
Make stories up, out of moving clouds
listen to others’ conversations.
Or invent the tales of how they arrived.
You made friends with everyone like I do,
a habit that drove my mother mad.
Daddy, after 50 years I still
talk to you.
I dream of you, too. You look like
you did in Paris in 1962;
handsome, a little casual, not yet
swallowed
by the torment of addiction.
You still hold my hand when we cross a
street
You still sing me Funny Face.
What does it mean, I still ask you.
I still want to know, what does it mean?
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