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by David Watts

My father used few words.
He moved fearless from task to task
as if they were meals to be eaten.
Our house grew inglenooks
from the imagination of the carpenter
he became.

From tree limbs of summer
I watched him tote
and saw, driving nails
with the same muscles
that lost baseballs
over West Texas outfields.

Leaves turned.
Snow fell.
All that whiteness
came. Standing
in the emptiness of transition
he spoke
imploring wisdom.

Then, when the inkwell went dry
he reached with great and somber hands
to turn out the light.


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