Wednesday Poem

My Father's Hats ....

..................Sunday mornings I would reach
              high into his dark closet while standing
                   on a chair and tiptoeing reach
              higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
                   the soft crowns and imagine
              I was in a forest, wind hymning
................. through pines, where the musky scent
              of rain clinging to damp earth was
                   his scent I loved, lingering on
              bands, leather, and on the inner silk
                   crowns where I would smell his
              hair and almost think I was being
                   held, or climbing a tree, touching
              the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
                   was that of clove in the godsome
              air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
                   sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
              and watch light slowly close
                   on water I can't be sure is there.

 

by Mark Irwin
from New Letters, Volume 66, Number 3, 2000