It was with almost joy
that I watched at my father's
deathbed. His struggle
to let go
of his body and thoughts
was like being at a birth.
But now I'm not so sure.
Now that I'm back
with my life.
Unlike Lear
who will never, never
see his daughter again
I feel the man's presence
in every third thought
as one who went before.
Twice that Spring he said
Rob, I'm dying
but I failed to ask my question
What is it like?
He wouldn't have been able
to say. Not
because he didn't know.
Because it's so
much like living.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem