Father

Father is sad with life’s reality.

Heavy eyes and weak knees,

the burdens of work and paying bills,

one foot in the trenches,

the other in the grave,

mind longing for Erato

and her fleeting visits

after a single night explosion.

But early in the morning’s darkness,

when everything is quiet

and shadows stir like thoughts

in a dusty mind of cobwebs,

he writes, painting pictures with words,

creating worlds of heroes and monsters

vivid in the sunlight of imagination.

He’s the one who’s raising me;

he planted the seed

and now is watering

with moments of colorful inspiration,

the fleeting song of life

floating in breezes,

gliding through rainbows,

spreading through sunsets.