The clouds and my father
bent low and grey
to drag their heavy shadows across the mountains—
his, the narrow ones from plow,
theirs, the massive ones that rimmed our valley.
By noon they forgot what they were dragging
Turned white, and drew up all the grey,
The stooped shoulders,
The heavy feet…
And years flew off ‘til there was nothing left of valleys,
Just a flat playing field, cleared of stubble,
A mitt and ball in hand, a baseball bat
I think maybe he was 18 again.
…just a dream it was,
But such a wonder-one,
How clouds can pull their weight and more—
Reveal as much as hide a spot of sunshine.
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Reveal as much as hide a spot of sunshine.
Such a wonderful analogy and metaphor, Charlie. And I just adore the title. In a curious way, it kind of ties in with the conceit behind my 'Like This' poem with that disappearance of apathy all gone up in smoke - particularly with what you say in your preamble about your Father and his childhood Sweetheart, funnily enough! Congratulations all round, by the way. :) So it's strange that we should be reviewing each other while the two overlap. I'm so pleased I happened across this poem because I was really on my way to thank you profusely and humbly for the great review and critique you left, giving me so much food for thought and plenty to dine out on in all that you saw in my poem; so generous of you to enlarge upon it in the ways that you did, thank you. Hope things are good with you and your darling Lissibet. She must be all growed up by now? xx
Excellent poem and verses. I enjoyed this very much.
Love and blessings,
Linda+
Axilea
Top tribute.
Ron
Cryssa
Thanks for sharing..
stan
…just a dream it was,
But such a wonder-one,
How clouds can pull their weight and more—
Reveal as much as hide a spot of sunshine.
Wonderful!