You are my perfect conversation,
and the kind of cool that overwhelms.
I would bleed my toenails purple,
make countless typos or bald my hair empty
just to have your babies.
I wish you’d hear the builders, and
the cats when they moan, and my heart.
You see, they remind me of you.
The early mornings and late nights of you.
Some days I hug my pillows,
trace the edges of their covers,
and smile imagining they were your skin.
Through a window in this part of the world,
if I only had fifteen lines, what can I say?
You are my fifteen lines.
Happy 15th ♥! 66
Your old hands told me
the busy years you spent
managing people and afternoons
to cut off the trees
that made one bastard filthy.
Your old hands told me
the quiet months you spent
in your rocking chair and pajamas
clueless of the seconds, hours,
days, months and years that passed.
Your old hands told me
the hurting days you spent
when your sons and daughters
grew up to be old-looking children,
lost , defeated, crying the years that wasn’t.
Your old hands told me
the elated hours you spent
cheering and playing with your gandchildren
as they battled personalities of giants
trapped in their small hands.
Tomorrow they will burry
the busy years, the quiet months,
the hurting days and the elated hours
that dawned those old hands.
I will not forget what they told me Pa.
Please be happy.
