my father’s book

Late summer light
Sharp shadows below the trees
Utters a bit of sadness
Like a old poem
Found in a book
Long forgotten
The leaf pressed
Between two pages
Obscuring the print
Of another language
Though what does it matter
Still translatable through the leaves
Your father’s words are still there
No one was allowed to read them
In the preface was written
If you are a smart ass
You will read this;)


The spires are lovely
A man thinks as he looks out
His window and thinks of Her
Garnet beads were her favorites
And now they’re in his hands
He’s holding them like she did
Feeling their cool roundness
As he looks outside his little window
Admiring the spiraling dark peaks
Black shadows against the blue sky
Now he understands