Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
...
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A very sweet poem that touches your heart. Trying to reach out to hold father's hat and the imagery of a pine forest, climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, scented clove - very well written. Enjoyed reading it. Mark.
Whiplash! I thought I was going to read a rather run-of-the-mill poem dedicated to fathers but instead I am presented with a masterpiece of writing! The stream-of-consciousness style of writing is my holy grail, the subtlety of the symbolism in this piece, the excellence of word choice- - it is all here!