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Mon, May 30, 11 at 12:14
| 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. My Father's Hats by Mark Irwin In Honor of my Father's birthday yesterday.
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Follow-Up Postings:
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| Thank you, ej! Yes, night-shifts are no fun! You posted while I was writing my rant, a happy surprise! |
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