Poem for My Father

Who could forget the sound and smell
Of logs being split in the gray autumn air,
Sledgehammer and chisel ringing out like a bell
Through damp fields and charcoal oaks,

And more so the inner strength of a winter fire,
Embers reflected in tall windows black with night.
“Home” lies deep in the heart of a father’s resolve,
A warmth to be sought after and desired for a lifetime

By sons gifted with memory of love and place
And a simple faith that refuses to die.
For even in “the blue smoke that betrays a fire on the hearth”
Threads of memory seem to connect with eternity.

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