My dad is out for a walk
like he does every day
exploring a new corner
of the world in his vicinity.
I wish he were a poet.
I wonder what he would say.
I hear that poets go for walks.
What new thing has caught his eye
today?
How would he express the greatness
or the finite little line,
the fissure in the rock,
or the great green pine.
The scent on the breeze
warning him to turn and head home
with some subliminal message,
“You have exactly one hour before I
storm.”
My dad is out for a walk
like he does every day,
an amiable man of much thought,
but little to say.
by: Paula D. Nevison
