17 December 2006


from Ain't Milton: a chapbook of poetry

Father, daughter
Side by Side
Stories told, prayers said,
Under a common blanket.
Cradled by his chest, her preschool eyes weighted with the day’s discoveries.
He sighes.

“I have to write a poem.”
“What’s a poem?”
He smiles. “A poem is…”
He tries to capture it.
“A poem is a written bunch of feelings.”
“Like ‘awake’/ ‘asleep’?” She laughs and mimics both.

“I’ll let you read some I’ve written.”
“You’ve wrote a lot?”
“Quite a few. A poem is a written thing that tries to…”
“Is that you?” Her toes touch his leg.
“You’re very warm,” she says as his chest pillows her head and she enters
The hazy contentment of new sleep.
Inexplicable perfection.

I offer you this…snapshot,
Nothing more.
Do with it what you will.
A shimmering moment of a father’s life…
Blurred by songs sung to a hairbrush,
Ballet recitals,
T-ball games,
School plays,

Life and love are in the moments:
The microscopic flecks of inexplicable perfection.

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